Behind the Music
by afalcone10
Summary: Eric works at a record store and after a chance meeting, Sookie does too. AH.
1. First Meeting: Hers

WEEKLY ONE-SHOT CHALLENGES OF 2010 Week 17

**Theme: Give Sookie your job/career/life and see what happens.**

**^v^**

**A/N: First o/s entry! And it's all because of Lubadub. She wrote one (about Sookie and Alcide as grad students) called Classroom Fantasies, and it was so good I was like, I want to write one! **

**So I'm not a grad student, and I'm not even a college student yet, so I can't write one **_**exactly**_ **like hers (and certainly not as lemony! *bows down to the Countess of Kink*). But, I do work at a record store, and I thought it'd be fun to write about that! **

**Big beta-thanks to chiisai-kitty. I want her to write ice cream scooper Sookie! **

**And these characters (and musicians) aren't mine. **

**Alright, I think I'm good! Drum roll, please (hah—get it)!**

…

I've found that sometimes in life that music's the only thing that can get your spirits up—and that was definitely true for me today. I was driving back from Shreveport to my home in Bon Temps, Louisiana, and I wasn't feeling at the top of my game.

The reason why I had ventured over twenty minutes away from my house was to go job-hunting, and I was just finding now it was all for nothing. I had dropped off twenty resumes at twenty different business establishments—from restaurants to coffee shops to libraries to clothing stores—and had been told twenty different times that no, unfortunately they weren't hiring, but it wouldn't hurt to leave my resume and fill out an application. It didn't help that almost half of the times I did that I saw the person behind the counter not-very-discreetly throw the papers in the garbage can instead of putting them away in a safe place. Needless to say, my ego was more than bruised—it was broken with no immediate chance of healing.

So there I was, driving in downtown Shreveport in my older brother Jason's recently-handed-down beat up yellow Toyota Corolla (but not so recently-handed-down that I didn't have time to cover the bumper with stickers of my favorite bands and radio stations), and I was in desperate need of singing my anger away. Even though I was driving, I knew my iPod well enough that I could get to my long list of Bruce Springsteen songs; that man knew how to relate to the blue-collar working class, and even though I was currently without a job I knew without a doubt that he was the guy I wanted to listen to right now. I almost put his _Nebraska_ album on, but I switched at the last moment to _The Rising_; I figured it'd be better if I listened to The Boss sing about rising up and overcoming my troubles (the theme of the second album), rather than succumb to them and make mistakes (the theme of the first).

Putting on the title track, I listened to the familiar opening guitar chord and Bruce's words, and I could feel my frustration dissipating as I took in the music—a good song can do that to you, and that's why I had over seven thousand songs in my iTunes library (I had too many for my 32G iPod, unfortunately).

I was driving when all of a sudden I saw a huge light-up sign for a Looney Tunes; it was the name of a well-known local record store franchise that had various shops in Louisiana and the surrounding states. What the heck? I didn't know there was a Looney Tunes in Shreveport. Huh.

Luckily there was no one behind me, because I turned off the road and into their parking lot without signaling or even breaking. Doing some music retail therapy sounded as good as my Gran's homemade pecan pie right now. Maybe even better.

I was right. I walked inside, and it was like walking into music heaven. Everywhere I looked, there was something music related—there was an entire wall filled with posters of famous musicians or cover art (as well as posters for movies, televisions shows, and other things), and another wall of music shirts (and other shirts), and then a third wall filled with music books (and other books.) And in between all of that there were rows and rows of DVDs and CDs and vinyl records—as well as goofy pop-culture stuff, jewelry, hats, _comics_ (there even was a comic room) and everything you'd expect in a store as cool as this.

'_How is it that I've never heard of this Looney Tunes before?' _I thought as I moved to the side of the doors and just took everything in. There was a lot to take in, believe me.

Ready to explore, I picked up a large silver basket hanging by the door for customers to carry while shopping. And I did some major shopping. Luckily for me, it seemed like the store sold not only new CDs, records, and DVDS, but also used, and pretty cheap, ones.

And their CD selection was fantastic—there was an entire row of folk CDs alone, which I had never seen before in a record store. I'm a huge folk-fan, so I combed through the section and found a couple of great '60s folk ones from artists none of my friends had ever heard of. And I'm not talking Bob Dylan or Nick Drake or Joni Mitchell—even though I did have friends who didn't know who they were until I introduced them—but, like, Sandy Denny and Fairport Convention and Pentangle and Bert Jansch and the Incredible String Band. There were newer folksy artists too, like Joanna Newsom and Devendra Banhart and Fleet Foxes and Iron & Wine. I was so excited I might have clapped my hands and caused the people closest to me to give me weird looks. Of course, that might have been because I was the only natural blonde in this place, or I didn't have any extra piercings or tattoos like most of the customers and even the employees, but I was too happy to care.

In fact, I was so happy I didn't even notice I'd been in the store for almost two hours until I walked past the windows and saw the unmistakable hues of a sunset. Holy hell! Time flies when you're on your hands and knees scouring the shelves of DVDs, or thumbing through the CD rack. My basket was brimming with so much merchandise my hands were starting to shake. Thankfully, almost everything I was buying was used and therefore under seven dollars—although I did pick up some great rare Japanese import CDs that I had never even heard of before.

I looked at everything the store had to offer—except the "adult" corner of the store that had porn movies and nudie magazines. And finally, when I was satisfied with everything—for now, at least—I brought my basket of CDs to the cash registers; I wasn't the only customer in line, but I wasn't getting cranky like the mom with a stroller in front of me. There were a lot of little doo-dads by the registers—rows and rows of candy, both your regular run-of-the-mill candy and special imported British Cadbury bars, hacky sacks, and bobble head figurines of famous musicians, like Jimi Hendrix or Elvis Presley, for example.

In fact, there were so many things to look at I almost missed the best one—the hot guy working the register farthest to the left. I couldn't believe I missed him. He was the most gorgeous man I'd ever seen. He looked a little older than me, college-aged maybe, but there was no doubt about it—he was definitely a man.

He was tall—like, the type of tall that makes random strangers stop and ask how tall you are. And he was blonde, almost the same kind of blonde as me; his hair was much shorter than mine but longer than the average guy's hair. But that made sense, because he definitely didn't look like your average guy—he looked much, much better than him. Though his hair was shaggy, it didn't look greasy or gross; in fact, the texture made me want to yank off the olive green beanie he was wearing (it wasn't supposed to snow today, since it was the end of March, but he was totally rocking it) and run my hands through his hair. Preferably while I was kissing him.

This whole time I hadn't bothered to move my eyes past his shoulders; that's how mesmerizing his hair and face were. But he bent down to grab a large paper bag for the customer he was ringing up, and that was when I realized he was wearing a white v-neck tee shirt that clung tightly to him at all the right places. When he turned to the side I saw part of a tattoo on his arm peeking out from underneath his sleeve. I tried to get a better look and see what it was, but I was, unfortunately, too far away to make out any details. I'd just have to wait until I was closer to inspect it.

Of course, that was assuming I'd be looking at his tattoo, instead of the gorgeousness that was his face.

He walked over to the far side of the cashier station, and I followed his every step, just now realizing there were other cashiers working with this guy—a man with a shaved head and a hoop earring, and a girl with light brown hair cut in a stylish bob. But the only reason I noticed them was because they were blocking the view of my guy as he walked behind them. He returned back to his customer with a rolled up piece of paper—a poster, it seemed—that he handed to the middle-aged man.

Once he was ready to ring up the next customer he called out, "I can help you right here, m'am," to the old woman two spots ahead of me. I always liked a guy with manners, and from the way this one was smiling and asking the woman how she was, I could tell he had them in spades. Not that I needed another reason to like this guy even more.

Then the other man at the register was free to help the mom in front of me, and I was next in line. I wished the guy, my guy, would hurry up and finish ringing so he could ring me up—err, my purchases, I mean—but unfortunately the girl worker was done first. With a sinking heart, I watched her tuck the signed slip somewhere behind the register, and I just knew I missed my chance with meeting my guy.

But then, for whatever reason, instead of looking up to see who was next, she stared at her cash register, pushing a series of buttons and frowning when the machine started beeping. "Eric," she called out, and my guy turned to look at her. _Eric_. So that was his name. _Eric_.

She said something about there needing to be a reload on her register, and Eric, _Eric_, just nodded and said, "Finish ringing her up while I fix it?" They switched spots, and I started feeling hopeful again that he would be the one to ring up my purchases.

He was. Thank God, he was. Whatever he did to that machine, he did it fast enough so that the girl was just now telling the customer how much her total was. He started to turn to switch places with her again, to go back to his register, when all of a sudden he turned and looked straight at me. Our gazes didn't just meet—they crashed. In that one second I was unaware of the people all around me and all around him—there was just him, Eric, and then there was just me, Sookie.

He grinned lazily, and turned to face forward now; it didn't look like he was going to try and get his register back. On the contrary, he leaned forward and hunched his shoulders as he rested both hands on the counter. "All set, miss?" he called out to me now, only it sounded different from when he called out to the other customer, and not just because of the choice of words.

I smiled nervously and stepped forwards. I had never been self-conscious of my taste in music before, even though it was the exact opposite of the kind of tasteless, talentless pop or hip-hop that most people my age listened to—but I was suddenly anxious to have this guy see what kind of music I liked. I wanted my selection to seem as cool and hip as he did. It felt like I was taking forever to reach the counter, but he didn't seem to mind; his eyes never left my face and my eyes never left his, so I knew for a fact that his expression didn't sour and become annoyed—in fact, it was eager and friendly and, of course, gorgeous.

"Hi there," I said shyly as I set the basket on the counter.

"How are ya?" he asked lazily, reaching to take my CDs out of the basket at the same time I was. I was too busy looking at him to notice that I grabbed the same exact CD he did, and only the brush of his fingers against mine caused me to look down.

"Sorry," I blurted, drawing my hands back and stuffing them in the pocket of my coat.

"Don't be. It's my fault. I'm not used to customers helping me out," he said nonchalantly, gazing curiously at me, and it was then that I picked up on his accent—or rather, his lack of a Southern one. It made me want to ask where he was from, but I couldn't do that. Hell, technically he hadn't even told me his name, even though I had heard the girl say it, and he was wearing a lanyard with a bright yellow nametag on it—one that spelled it E-R-I-C like I had automatically assumed that was how he spelled his name. Now I could see his name clearer, and that next to it there was one of those little green "edited" dot-stickers that had been placed on the, well, edited copies of rap CDs. I thought it was pretty clever. And pretty cute.

Blushing, I didn't reply and stared at the box of lighters on the counter; I didn't smoke pot or cigarettes (although I could legally smoke the latter since I turned eighteen two months ago) but I feigned interest in the silly little plastic thingys because I didn't dare look at Eric.

Of course, as soon as he appraisingly said, "Niiiiice!" I instantly looked to see what he was talking about. I saw he was holding up the Warren Zevon box-set that featured only interviews and outtakes with one of my favorite singer-songwriters of all time. I had been so thrilled when I found that in the midst of the extensive CD section.

Once he saw I was looking at him again Eric said, "Warren Zevon's great. Have you read that book about his, I think it's called—"

"_I'll Sleep When I'm Dead?_" I finished for him. He nodded enthusiastically, his eyes lighting up. I continued, "Yeah, I checked that book out of my library and kept renewing my rental so I could read it over and over again. I never really knew he was that self-destructive, ya know? I love him and everything, but after that book I was like, well, I definitely wouldn't invite him to a dinner party."

He laughed, and I felt a geeky pleasure that I was the reason why he was laughing and smiling. "I think it depends on what era Warren Zevon, though. I mean, did you see his final appearance on Letterman?"

Oh, I could have kissed him. Warren Zevon had been a frequent guest and sometime guest-music conductor on whatever show David Letterman was hosting at the time—and only a true Zevon-ite would know that.

"I don't think you can be a Warren Zevon fan and not see his final appearance on Letterman. I'm proud to say that 'Enjoy every sandwich' is one of my most-used phrases," I laughed, bringing up the famous quote the musician had used to describe his new outlook on life since he had been diagnosed with incurable lung cancer.

Eric gazed at me for some time before shaking his head and incredulously saying, "I can't believe you just quoted that." I didn't say anything, thinking that I must have gotten too music-geeky for him. He continued, "My favorite Zevon-ism is, 'I might have made a tactical error in not seeing a physician for twenty years. It was one of those phobias that really didn't pay off.' But unfortunately that's not as easy to bring up in conversation."

I laughed in relief, since that quote was also taken from the last Letterman interview Warren Zevon had given before he died, and Eric smiled even more brightly at me. He scanned the CD and set it aside. "I can already tell I'm going to have fun ringing you up," he said, winking at me.

He winked at me—was he for real? Who winks nowadays? And, more importantly, who winks nowadays and doesn't manage to come off as a total creeper? Between that wink and that innuendo and that conversation about Warren Zevon and that face, I was a goner.

And even if I wasn't a goner, I would have been once Eric started ringing up the rest my purchases. It turned out we had similar tastes in music—he informed me of what albums he had and which ones he wished he had, and he also gave great recommendations too. In fact, he was the exact kind of guy I'd always imagined worked at a record store, except so much hotter.

I was reduced to a mushy pile of "uhh-huhh's" and "wow's" and "really's?" by the time he was done. He was funny and charming and seemed like he actually cared about my purchases even though I was just one of the many customers he'd served that day. I was so smitten that my total purchase was well over a hundred dollars, and I still wished I had bought more things just so it would mean I could be near Eric longer. Now that we stopped our conversation, I now realized that I didn't recognize any of the other customers being rung up—heck, I didn't even recognize any of the customers in line, that's how long Eric and I had been talking.

Trying to mask how reluctant I was to leave, I handed Eric my debit card, and he took it and brought it close to his face so he could read the small lettering. "Susannah M. Stackhouse. Huh."

"What do you mean, huh?" I asked curiously.

He shrugged and looked back at me. "Didn't have you pegged as a Susannah, 's all."

I boldly replied, "So what did you have me pegged as, then?"

He looked down and smiled, and it was the cutest thing. He looked back up at me and replied, "I dunno … like, Gem?"

"Gem?" I snorted. "Seriously? _Gem?_"

He chuckled sheepishly. "Okay, okay. I get it. But something rocker-ish and spunky and cute."

"I actually go by Sookie," I explained. "No one calls me Susannah, really. Except you, I guess."

"Not anymore. I like Sookie."

"Yeah. Me too," I deadpanned.

He laughed appreciatively, and after a beat he replied, "So what do you think my name is?"

"Eric."

He looked dumbfounded for a second, and I pointed at his nametag. He looked down like he'd forgotten he was wearing it, and he shook his head and laughed again. "Right."

I smiled but didn't say anything.

"So, Sookie, have any ID?" he asked after a moment. I stared at him and he explained, "It's just that you didn't sign your card, and we're supposed to ask for ID when a credit or debit card isn't signed."

"Oh. Oh, right. Sorry. I just got that card like, a week ago, and I guess I forgot to sign it," I rambled as I tried to take my license out; I kept getting one corner stuck in the plastic protective sleeve it was underneath. Eric waited patiently, and after a couple seconds I was able to hand it over to him.

"So you live in Bon Temps?" he asked, now looking at my license. "Is that nearby?"

"Yeah, it's like twenty minutes away."

He nodded. "Hmm. And it says here you're eighteen? You still in school?"

"Yep, I'm a senior at Bon Temps High," I answered obediently, even though I was thoroughly confused by the turn in conversation. Was this some kind of employee security-check test the employees were supposed to ask a customer with an unsigned debit card? Sheesh. That seemed a little extreme.

"What time does school get out for you?" he asked, like that was a perfectly normal question to ask someone he just met.

"Two-oh-seven. And now I just have to ask—what the heck?"

He did that same look-down-and-smile thing, and I found it just as adorkable as the first time. He handed me back the two plastic cards and answered, "Sorry. I guess that was kind of stalkerish. But one of the guys who works here, Long Shadow, just found out his band's tour got moved up a month earlier than it originally was, so we're kinda scrambling to find a replacement. You interested?"

My whole face lit up; I could feel it. "Totally. That would be so swick!"

"Swick?" he asked, chuckling a little.

I blushed. "Um, yeah. About that … I think I just tried to say sweet and sick at the same time." I looked down at the pen and receipt slip Eric had placed down on the counter, and I busied myself with signing on the dotted line because I was too embarrassed to see what Eric's reaction was.

"Swick. I like it." I needn't have worried; he was beaming at me. "So, what days are good for you?"

I stared at him. "Don't I need to leave a resume or fill out an application or something?"

He smiled and pointed at the bulging plastic bag of CDs. "You already did."

"Oh. Okay. Um, any day's fine for me, as long as it's after school. And I'm free anytime on the weekends," I answered quickly, not believing my luck. So not only would I have a job at one of the coolest places to have a job, but I'd be able to spend more time with Eric? Sign me up!

"Good. Why don't you write down your name and number on this Post-it note, and we'll give you a call in a couple of days?" he said.

I did just that, and I handed it to Eric after he gave me my bag of purchases.

"Great. Well, be seeing you, I guess," he said, nodding at me.

"Hopefully!" I cheerfully responded, starting to walk over towards the door. Once I got there I turned around for one final look at Eric, and I saw that he was looking right at me as he rung up the next customer's purchases. He broke out into a smile, and I grinned back at him before I left for good.

I've found that sometimes in life that music's the only thing that can get your spirits up—well, that, and a great conversation with a hot guy. Both were definitely true for me today.

…

**Confession time! So there actually isn't an "Eric" for me at work. *sigh* but I'm basing his clothing and the actual merchandise on real life stuff. I did get my job based on my purchase and the fact that I lived nearby; it was actually my boss (a happily married father of two, so our conversation was nowhere near as flirty as the one Sookie had with Eric) who asked for some ID and offered me the job on the spot as soon as he knew I lived nearby. Life's funny like that.**

**And I absolutely LOVE my job, as I'm sure Sookie will if there's enough interest in this story for me to continue it! *cough cough***


	2. First Meeting: His

**A/N: Remember this story? Uh, sorry about that …**

**Thanks to my beta chiisai-kitty for reading over this and commiserating over how stupid customers can be.**

****Just a heads up, changed the name of the record store to "Looney Tunes" because now I feel creepy writing about the store I used to work at. **

…

I was leaning against the back of my crappy car, smoking my fourth cigarette of the day and wishing for the millionth time I had enough money to put up my half of the bar I was planning to start with my friend Pam. _Soon,_ I promised myself, squinting at the ground. I'd just have to work here for a little while longer.

Not that "here" at the Looney Tunes record store was a dump, by any means. Sure, it was a pain in the ass dealing with customers who couldn't be bothered to remember the name of the song or the artist and could only hum a few bars or lyrics yet expected me to know what the hell they were talking about, but most of the times the good outweighed the bad. Hey, all I know is, it sure as hell beats the shitty minimum-wage jobs at restaurants or coffee shops or grocery stores that my friends worked at. Plus, with the right chick at the right bar, being the assistant manager at a record store had its perks—as did being a 6'1" tattooed guitarist with shaggy shoulder-length blonde hair.

I exhaled and looked at the sky. Cloudy. Great. I was currently on break with the daunting task of more than six hours of work ahead of me—we were only in our third week at this new Shreveport location and there was too much work to be done with too little hours or helpful employees.

It's a good thing I was already working overtime—otherwise I'd have to scramble to find the money for the extra pack of cigarettes I was planning on buying at the gas station down the street as soon as I finished the one I was smoking. I had found that the more time I spent working here, the more cigarettes I went through. At first it started as a social activity to do at bars or clubs, something to do in between sets at clubs to bum cigarettes and talk to girls so I could get them to leave with me instead of the douche bags I was hired to assist with as a local house musician. But now it was a bad habit, and some days taking a quick smoke was the only thing keeping me together at work.

_Especially _this week—the store's manager and my boss, Stan, had chosen the absolute _worst _time to go on vacation with his girlfriend. Then again, if I found a chick I wouldn't mind spending the night _and _day with, maybe I would also be a little forgetful and not realize that I booked a week in Mexico right after our store switched locations. Hot girls like Isabel tended to have that effect.

And then today Long Shadow went ahead and gave me a _three day's_ notice that his band was going on tour in Europe. I mean, he had already told me that he'd have to leave in a month to open for this semi-famous band on their North American tour, which was fine—but apparently the opening band for the European side of the same tour broke up, and Long Shadow's band was going to open on both continents. I genuinely liked the guy, and the few times I played with his band I'd been impressed by his drumming. And being a musician I couldn't grudge him the fact that he was going to go on a major tour for a band who had two songs currently playing on the radio … but as his superior I could and most definitely would grudge him the fact that he was giving me no time to find him a replacement when we were already under-staffed. I had left Stan a message this morning, but knew he probably wouldn't be calling back any time soon. Again, hot girls like Isabel tended to have that effect.

I shook my head, tugging my favorite olive green beanie over my ears. This was cigarette and break time, not work time. I knew that if I wanted to buy that pack and whatever measly form of lunch that could be made from $3 worth of sundries in a gas station, I needed to leave now. A quick peek at my cell showed there was about twenty-one minutes left in my half-hour break, but the gas station was five minutes away and I would need to have another smoke before I went back to work, judging by the amount of cars in the parking lot. Sighing, I snuffed the cigarette out with the heel of my vintage Beatle boot and pulled my keys out of my jeans pocket. Here goes another thirteen big ones down the drain.

As I walked to the front of my car, I tried to cheer myself up by thinking of what I could play on my iPod during the drive. I always liked listening to Tom Waits when I was feeling down, but for some reason I clicked my way over to Bruce Springsteen and settled with _Nebraska_. Bruce and his song characters were my life right now.

But then I found a completely better way to cheer myself up, and it had everything to do with the brief glimpse of girl I saw walking in the store. I didn't see much, but I saw shiny golden curls and a short khaki skirt that revealed a lot of bare legs that disappeared into a pair of brown knee-high boots, and that was all I needed.

Fuck the cigarettes … they'd still be there when I stopped at the gas station when my shift ended at eight. But this girl?

…

I quickly went back inside, pointedly not looking at the cash register; I was in scouting mode right now and nothing less than an armed robbery would stop that.

But of course, what you say is one thing, and whether or not you stick to your guns and follow through with it is something completely different. There wasn't a man in a ski mask pointing a gun at Quinn when he called me over, but I still muttered a "Fuck" under my breath and turned around to look at him. "Yeah?"

"Uh, there's someone on the phone, says he has over a thousand records that his new wife's forcing him to get rid of so she can build an underground swimming pool," he explained, nervously tugging on his pierced pirate ear—which I called not because I liked giving men nicknames for certain body parts, but because he had one pierced ear with a golden hoop and it made him look like a fucking wannabe pirate.

Shit. I knew I'd have to take that call. Stan and I were, so far, the only ones with the knowledge and training to buy used vinyl, and since Stan wasn't here I was the only one who could. I walked back to the counter and obviously picked up the phone I had put down on the counter when I went on break, exhaling disappointedly—good, at least Quinn looked sorry.

"Hi, this is Eric, how can I help you?" I said cheerfully, cradling the phone on my shoulder as I started rubbing my arm tattoo like I did whenever I was annoyed. I had gotten that one the day after I graduated from the University of Miami as a psychology major; that was two years ago, and most of the time I liked the Vitruvian man playing guitar Townshend-style that could be seen poking out from under the sleeves of the v-neck or concert tees that I usually wore, the white v-neck I was wearing today being no exception.

I could always just look for mystery girl while I walked around the store helping this terribly whipped man—Michael, as he just told me. _Shit. _Judging by some of the titles he just told me he had, no, I wouldn't be able to look for mystery girl, because I'd have to go in the back room and already start typing out all of the different editions and imported singles this Michael had of Beatles '45s and trying to come up with a time we could meet so I could look at his collection. Shit, if I was going to have to give up on mystery girl, it needed to be a good reason … and this was shaping up to be a pretty fucking good reason.

…

I finished the call with Michael, planning to meet him at his house in some nearby town called Bon Temps at nine o'clock tonight—those cigarettes were looking less and less likely, much like mystery girl—and threw out the wrappers of the candy bars Stan had stashed in the part of the desk he thought no one ever checked. Based on the sale I just made, he probably wouldn't mind that I just ate them all—especially when I told him how much money some of the higher-end or rare records could be bought for online through the store's eBay account—fuck, I needed to check on the current bidding on that autographed Todd Rundgren poster for the store—and then he'd be even less pissed about the candy that had become my lunch.

Grinning, I decided to go out to smoke my last ciggy before going back to work—the call had taken about an hour and a half, so I thought I was at least entitled to one cigarette even though that would only give me an official ten minute break. But that smile slid off my face once I saw the line in front of the cash registers. Yes, I knew as assistant store manager I should be glad there were so many customers … but for fuck's sake, was I asking too much in trying to smoke a stupid little cigarette?

I put the cig back in its package and tucked it in my back pocket as I walked up to the registers and behind the counter. Quinn and Amelia, who was currently the only girl on staff but more than made up for it by always wearing tight jeans, already had their hands full, so I stepped in and started ringing people up, dismally noticing that no matter how fast I worked, the line never seemed to disappear.

I lost track of how many people I had served and smiled at and asked how they were, but I knew it was a lot when Amelia asked me to fix her cash register and I didn't feel the usual pang of resentment I did whenever handling the brand new, $400-apiece cash registers; those stupid fuckers cost more than two month's worth of food for me, and it was hard not to smash something so unnecessarily extravagant. We switched registers so she could finish ringing up my customer while I fixed the simple mistake—she had pressed a button she shouldn't have, and was too stressed with the amount of waiting customers to notice it. I'd have to remember to tell her to go on break and let her cool down as soon as this random rush ended. Satisfied with my handiwork, I started to go back to my register to finish up the sale I had told Amelia to do in the mean time.

For whatever reason, I happened to glance at the long line of customers, and saw that mystery blond, the one I had bitterly thought got away, was next in line. I couldn't believe she was still here, but I was glad she was. I grinned; I couldn't help it. _No fucking way_ was I going to retreat back to my cash register and let Amelia ring up this girl. I put my hands on the counter and leaned forward excitedly as I called out, "All set, miss?"

She looked young, like she just got out of college. As I watched her face light up with a shy smile, I realized that with her pale blue eyes, blond hair, and curvy body, she was hot—she would have totally been worth missing a packet of cigarettes for, if I didn't have to take that stupid phone call. It didn't matter though; I was here now and she was here now and I didn't ever remember being so interested in what a single customer was buying.

Hah, watch her whip out our entire section of fucking Dave Matthews Band CDs. I wouldn't even be surprised, with the way my stupid luck was running right now.

"Hi there," she greeted me as she placed her basket of goods on the counter. I did a quick peek and was glad to not see any of the album cover artwork of that stupid band—which I knew from having to restock his CDs all the time, of course.

"How are ya?" I drawled, reaching to take the CDs out of the basket so I could see what she was buying. Yeah, I'd judge her by her choice of music … you try working at a music store for two years and not doing it. I picked up a CD and was surprised to see that she too was holding it, her soft fingers—well, they felt soft in the three seconds my fingers were touching them—brushing mine.

"Sorry," she said abruptly, and she dropped the CD and put her hands in the pockets of her maroon coat, like she was afraid she might touch me again. Why did she think that was such a bad thing?

"Don't be," I replied easily, watching her face react as I added, "It's my fault. I'm not used to customers helping me out."

She looked a little surprised by my honesty, which was surprising in itself. It was true. I couldn't remember the last time that happened; every day it seemed like more and more people were talking on their cell phones when at the register—there was no need for common decency or politeness at a record store, it seemed. That or people didn't think that people who worked at a record store for a living were worth being nice to.

This girl blushed and looked down at the counter, which, of course, was _not _something girls usually did when talking to me—okay, this will sound cocky as hell, but fuck yeah, I was a handsome guy, although I thought I was a little too scrawny and skinny due to my inability to gain muscle mass or even eat three decent meals a day. So I was used to girls coming up to me or coming on to me. Sexual innuendos I could laugh off, flirty winks I could ignore, come-ons I could mock, and good, decent conversation I could love and excel at. But blushing and avoiding eye contact? I had no idea how to respond to _that_.

But then I did—without even meaning to. I couldn't help it. As soon as I saw the Warren Zevon box set she had picked up, I was glad I didn't moan or groan or do anything more embarrassing than say, "Niiiiiice!" like I was fucking Borat or something. Warren Zevon was one of my favorite artists of all times—I thought he sounded so much better on vinyl than on CDs or iPods. Plus, that guy was sharp and witty and just a fucking good musician, even though he seemed like a pretty shitty person whenever he was in his drinking phases. I was always surprised he never made it as big as some of his buddies, like Jackson Browne or Bruce Springsteen, but on the other hand, he didn't have any fair-weather fans, and the only people who knew about him liked him for who he was and what he stood for and what he sounded like.

And it looked like this girl was one of those people. I was starting to regret thinking this chick would be a Dave Matthews Band follower. Serves me right for being the guy who works at the record store and judges the musician by her album cover. _And what an attractive album cover she had._

I noticed she picked her head up when I spoke, so I added, "Warren Zevon's great. Have you read that book about his, I think it's called—" I paused, trying to remember that book. Though I could remember details the name of the actual novel was escaping me. But I knew it was of one of his song titles—not fucking _Werewolves of London_ though.

"_I'll Sleep When I'm Dead?_" she interrupted, and I gave her this look like, wow. I started bopping my head in agreement. She grinned and continued, "Yeah, I checked that book out of my library and kept renewing my rental so I could read it over and over again. I never really knew he was that self-destructive, ya know? I love him and everything, but after that book I was like, well, I definitely wouldn't invite him to a dinner party."

Holy crap. She was well on her way to living up to my idea the perfect dream girl—yeah, she was good-looking, but bodies are easy to find, and mold. Brains, on the other hand … this girl had them, and she had good ideas, and both of those were so important to me.

All I could do was bop my head and laugh. This was great. "I think it depends on what era Warren Zevon, though. I mean, did you see his final appearance on Letterman?"

Of course she did; any self-respecting Warren Zevon fan had youtubed those clips at least once or twice. "I don't think you can be a Warren Zevon fan and not see his final appearance on Letterman," she replied easily, and I nodded in agreement. "I'm proud to say that 'Enjoy every sandwich' is one of my most-used phrases."

Holy shit. I stared at her. Was this _happening_? "I can't believe you just quoted that," I admitted. She had her favorite Warren Zevon quote. I had my own favorite Warren Zevon quote—"I might have made a tactical error in not seeing a physician for twenty years. It was one of those phobias that really didn't pay off"—and I told her it, quipping, "But unfortunately that's not as easy to bring up in conversation."

She laughed, looking as enamored as I did. Mystery girl had lived up to the hype. I flirtatiously winked at her and said, "I can already tell I'm going to have fun ringing you up." And I only partly meant that in a sexual innuendo way … I was seriously looking forward to seeing what else she would buy. Seriously.

This girl … I just … she was so amazing, I was having a musical jizz in my pants. I was blown away. Pentangle. Mumford & Sons—my favorite new band, which I made sure she knew. The Tallest Man on Earth. Fucking _Hot Tuna_, man. And yeah, she seemed like a total folkie, but she had some other really good shit too—The Black Keys. Alejandro Escovedo (which made me wonder if she was a Bruce fan, since that was pretty much how people knew Alejandro Escovedo, but if she was she must already have all his stuff since she didn't buy any.) A lot of what she was buying, I already had. I had never met someone whose musical tastes so closely resembled my own. She really knew her shit. She seemed like the kind of girl who should work here. Hell, I wanted her to work here … and now I had an opportunity to make that happen. Or try to, anyways.

This wasn't even about wanting to get a drink with her, or go home with her. Not anymore. I sadly realized that if I did that, there was a very good possibility I'd never see her—or her music collection—ever again, given my track record. I don't think I ever saw a girl make it past 10:30 in my apartment. I don't think I ever made it past 10:30 in someone else's apartment. It just wasn't my style … never had been, never would be. I wasn't sure if this girl would be able to break it. Of course, I wanted her to … but I didn't want to take that chance and ruin what we had.

Jesus Christ. _"What we had."_ I've known her—not her name or age or romantic status, mind you—for all of two minutes and I was already thinking, _'I didn't want to take that chance and ruin what we had.' _This girl had me all bent out of shape.

So I blabbered. I blabbered like a fucking tool. I'm not a blabber, never was, but I ran my mouth off so much talking to her about what she was buying. She was just kind of like "uh-huh" and "cool" and "really?" but I could tell she was getting into it, and wasn't just saying that to be nice. Plus, she wasn't looking at me like I was a psycho, which is always a good thing.

Once I finished ringing up her purchases, I noticed that the line had shrunk. I mean, yeah, she did buy a lot of stuff so it took a little while to ring her up, but my frequent interjections and our conversation certainly didn't help. I was almost sad that we were all done and she'd be leaving soon, and it wasn't the capitalist motherfucker in me feeling that way.

I hoped to fuck she'd pay by credit or debit so I'd get to see what her name was. I mean, I had no trouble just straight-out asking her name and—when Quinn walked a little farther down the counter—her number, but still. Thankfully, she handed me a debit card, and I exhaled in relief.

"Susannah M. Stackhouse. Huh," I said.

'_Oh! Susanna, don't you cry for me; I come from Alabama, with my banjo on my knee.'_ Well, I was originally from Boston, and I played guitar, but I mean, hey. It was practically a sign, right?

"What do you mean, _huh_?" she asked, no doubt wondering what I was up to.

I nonchalantly shrugged as best as I could. "Didn't have you pegged as a Susannah, 's all."

"So what did you have me pegged as, then?" she asked, and damn if I wasn't pleased. Look at her, that saucy little minx. Just, look at her.

Oh, I was. Way too much. I sheepishly looked down at the counter and then back up, something I usually did while trying to think of my next step, and replied, "I dunno … like, Gem?"

"Gem?" she snorted. "Seriously? _Gem?_"

Well, okay. But I could tell she was kidding with me—flirting, even. I could do that. "Okay, okay. I get it. But something rocker-ish and spunky and cute." _Because that's what you are, Susannah—cute. _

"I actually go by Sookie," she told me. Sookie. This might sound a little bit too Grateful Dead hippy-dippy, but she just seemed like a Sookie. And with a name like "Susannah" that nickname made sense. "No one calls me Susannah, really. Except you, I guess."

I thought about it—if I called her Susannah, then I'd be the only one to call her that … it'd be like, my thing. She'd think of me whenever someone else called her Susannah. On the other hand … she wasn't a Susannah. A Susannah was some stuffy matronly lady who made her nouns into verbs, like "I lunched today" or "Let's spa."

I finally said, "Not anymore. I like Sookie."

"Yeah. Me too."

I laughed and slyly asked, "So what do you think my name is?"

"Eric," she said plainly, like she knew she was right.

_The fuck_? Oh. Right. Nametag. I'm such an idiot. I just shook my head and laughed. She smiled at me.

"So, Sookie, have any ID?" I asked after I got my mojo back. I knew without a doubt she was younger than me, but probably just like two years, which was fine, but I still wanted to know how old she was … and I only asked because she didn't sign the back of the card, and it was just a standard procedure to ask for ID on those cards, which I informed her once she gave me a rightfully thrown strange look.

"Oh. Oh, right. Sorry. I just got that card like, a week ago, and I guess I forgot to sign it," she said as she tried to take her license out. But even though she said that to explain why her card wasn't signed, it just raised more questions. Why'd she get the card like, a week ago? New bank account? New in town? And why'd she forget to sign it—what was she too busy doing, except being awesome and cute? I was so lost in my thoughts I barely noticed the trouble she was having taken the license out of her wallet.

I smiled as I took it from her and looked down and _Jesus Christ holy motherfucking shit_. DOB: 1/18/92. She was eighteen. _Eighteen_. I had a brother, Mark, who was a senior in high school back home—Sookie was even younger than him, by a little more than a month—and she was more suitable to be his girl than mine. Hell, I didn't even date high school girls when I was in high school.

So much for taking her out for drinks_. Fuckin' a._

You know what? No. So maybe this was a good thing. It really was. Looney Tune's had a strict policy against dating in the work place, and even though I was slowly coming to realize that age didn't have to be that big of an issue between us and that she wasn't technically jailbait, if I hired Sookie then I couldn't even be tempted. I'd still be able to talk music with her, learn more about her, silently admire her beauty and charm and wit from afar.

"So you live in Bon Temps?" I managed to say, deliberately not mentioning her age. Bon Temps—that was where I'd be going later tonight. _To the land of hot eighteen-year-olds_. No. Stop that. "Is that nearby?"

She shrugged. "Yeah, it's like twenty minutes away."

Twenty minutes away. If she lived twenty minutes away and knew so much about good music, then why was the first time I was seeing her?

Whatever. It didn't matter. The question I should be asking myself is, if she lives twenty minutes away does that mean I should ask if she already has a job? Because she'd live nearby. I lived like forty minutes away, and I still worked here.

That's it. I'm going to go for it—something I never thought I'd be thinking about a girl in relation to my job.

I paused. "Hmm. And it says here you're eighteen? You still in school?"

"Yep, I'm a senior at Bon Temps High," she told me.

"What time does school get out for you?" I asked, catching the creepiness factor way too late.

"Two-oh-seven. And now I just have to ask—what the heck?"

So there was a reason why I knew she was smart. I swiped her debit card and handed it back to her along with her license before I replied, "Sorry. I guess that was kind of stalkerish. But one of the guys who works here, Long Shadow, just found out his band's tour got moved up a month earlier than it originally was, so we're kinda scrambling to find a replacement. You interested?"

Judging by the smile that lit up her face, I knew I had asked the right question, about the right topic. Not, "What's your number?" or "Do you want to grab a drink with me?" or "I get off at eight." And yeah, I knew the last one wasn't a question, but with the right smile it probably would have yielded more success than both of the other questions combined … with any other girl. Maybe.

"Totally. That would be so swick!" she exclaimed.

Oh, God. _Swick_. I have no idea what that means. Does that mean I'm old? Of course it does. I'm _old_.

She mumbled something about how she accidentally just said sweet and sick at the same time. So I wasn't _that_ old and just didn't know any of the hip slang. _Thank fuck_. While she busied herself with signing her sales receipt—she was a righty, I noticed—I smiled in relief.

"Swick. I like it," I murmured, and she looked up and smiled at me. "So, what days are good for you?"

"Don't I need to leave a resume or fill out an application or something?"

Technically, yes. But instead I smiled and pointed at the bulging plastic bag of CDs. "You already did."

"Oh. Okay. Um, any day's fine for me, as long as it's after school. And I'm free anytime on the weekends," she answered.

I suddenly felt a fierce protective desire to always schedule us both for Friday and Saturday nights for the rest of the year so she wouldn't be able to go get drunk at parties and kiss and touch guys who had no idea how to kiss and touch a girl like Sookie, but I quickly pushed that feeling away, willing it to disappear as quickly as it appeared.

"Good. Why don't you write down your name and number on this Post-it note, and we'll give you a call in a couple of days?" I said, balling my hand in a fist behind the counter once I realized I had just joined the Knights Who Say We.

Who the fuck was this girl to throw me off my game so badly? Jesus fucking Christ, you'd think I was a fifth grader who just found out what boobies were.

She took the Post-it note stack and used the pen to write down her name and number. She wrote in big letters, which I remembered from a psych textbook as meaning she was bubbly and friendly. No shit.

"Great. Well, be seeing you, I guess," I said.

"Hopefully!" And with that, she was gone. Although I was glad to see that she did turn around to look at me before she left. That was a good sign. No. Wait. It's wasn't like that. It couldn't be.

I spent the rest of the day fighting with my conscience. In the end, I decided I'd call her in two days—because if I called her tomorrow I'd just seem desperate—and formally offer her a job.

Suddenly my day didn't seem so bad after all.

…

**This will be kinda slow on updates … I have Dead To My World to finish up, and work on its companion story. This is a story to kinda blow off steam with, whenever I have the chance. So yeah …**


	3. First Day of Work

**A/N: Hey all! Long time no see, but if you've been keeping track of me that's about to change because I'll be writing a lot more frequently. So far I've FINALLY finished _Dead To My World_ and published a one-shot, _Mine._ And I've been working on the follow-up EPOV companion piece _Dead To Your World_ as well as this little story. So I'm sorry I haven't been faithful with updating, but I'm sure I'll fix that.**

**Thank you to my beta chiisai-kitty for editing this so quickly! She really likes this story, and I really like her, so her encouragements help me get this train moving. **

**As always, thanks to Charlaine Harris for giving me characters that I can make all cute and awkward. **

**...**

**SPOV**

In the two days that followed my successful expedition to Looney Tunes, I swarmed around the telephone so much my Gran asked if I was expecting a call from a boy. Which I was. But not like _that_.

Still, after all the waiting I started to feel like Eric was standing me up, via the phone. I'd never been on a second date or even had a boyfriend, so this was my first time waiting for a guy to call me, and I didn't know it would be like this—torturous, mind-numbing, and, for a white-hot second after the phone rang and before I picked up, exhilarating. It got to the point where I decided on the third day if he didn't call me, I'd call him.

It didn't come to that, thank God. He called at five on the second day—and by five I don't mean, say, 5:07. I mean, five o'clock, 5:00. Very punctual. Maybe it was his break? Maybe he was just about to leave his shift? ARGH why was I analyzing this? What did it matter? He called! Eric called me!

"Hello?" I asked brightly, still clinging to the hope that maybe this one time it would be Eric.

A guy coughed before saying, "Hi, uh, is Sookie Stackhouse there?"

I always hated this. I think the right (polite?) thing to do was say, "This is she," but that just sounded so stuffy and polite and just not-me. I could just fake it and be like, "One second, please!" and go "get" me. And that might work, but if this guy was, by some stroke of evil luck, someone local, then he'd totally know it was me. Because in this small town of Bon Temps everyone knew it was just me and Gran in this old ramshackle farm house—it was practically scrawled underneath the "Welcome to Bon Temps" sign.

I ended up going with, "Yeah, that's me. I'm Sookie."

"Oh, hey, Sookie. It's Eric, from Looney Tunes Records."

"Eric! Hi!" I said, a little too enthusiastically—so much I was glad Gran wasn't around, or else I would have earned a raised eyebrow from her. Toning down the excitement level, I ever-so-casually added, "What's up?"

"Nothing much," he said, "but I've been busy thinking about this girl I met two days ago, and when I could see her again."

Was that _me?_ Was that Eric flirting with me about me? He was making me blush and wasn't even around to see it, which in this case was a good thing.

"Oh, yeah? And when do you think you'll see her again?" I squeaked.

Eric laughed. "Soon, hopefully. Maybe sometime this week, after school gets out for her. 2:07, if I remember correctly."

_He did._ I smiled widely, stretching out my skin, but I was too happy to care.

"Sookie? Hello? You there?" he prompted after a couple seconds where I didn't say anything. I was too busy marveling to notice it was my turn to talk.

"Yeah, sorry. Um, Wednesday is always a good day—middle of the week and all."

"And it's called Humpday, so you know it's good!" he said bluntly. I burst out a quick little laugh at his audacity.

"That too," I managed to say.

"So, all funny business aside, is this Wednesday good for you?"

"Yep. What time?"

"How about three p.m. to nine p.m.?" he replied after a faint exhale that was barely even noticeable to anyone who wasn't paying as much attention to this conversation as I was. He was smoking, maybe? On his break?

Then I thought about what he said. Three to nine. Wait, was that my shift? No training before hand—just throw me into the wild throng of customers and hope I can adapt?

Right when I was about to ask, Eric explained, "We're kind of short-staffed at the moment, and Stan—that's my boss, and yours too now—is on vacation. It'd be your first shift on your first day, which I bet sounds really daunting, but it'll be good. I promise. I'll be there, right by your side, the whole time to look out for you."

"Okay. Sounds good," I replied. _Especially if you'll be right by my side the whole time._

"Hey, I've been wondering, have you listened to that—awh, _shit_, or, uh, sorry, I mean, _shucks_ … just looked inside and there's a huge line at the register. Economy's supposed to suck, but there's always a huge line here. I don't get it. Anyways, I should go help. Sorry. But, I'll see you on Wednesday. We can talk music then."

Awwwh he was so cute, not wanting to swear in front of me. "Already looking forward to it. Bye, Eric. Take care now."

"You too. See ya."

I hung up the phone, grinning—until I realized I had no idea what to wear for my first day.

What would I wear? If I was working at a record store, I had to look cool. Didn't I? That's what all the people looked like at the store, with their colorful hipster skinny jeans and v-necks and beanies that didn't work as much as Eric's did. And that's what all the actors looked like in all of the movies that take place in a record store that I loved and owned. I felt like at least one concert tee was mandatory, but I didn't have one.

This was a conversation I would have with my BFF if I had one. Don't get me wrong, I did have people to sit with at lunch and people to work with on group projects, but that's all I had and, really, that's all I wanted. The people who went to my high school were dumb and superficial and obsessed with looks and partying. I'd been marginally popular in the beginning of high school because I had big boobs and blonde hair (for the guys) and was Jason Stackhouse's lil sis (for the girls), but after a few parties I distanced myself from them and they from me, and neither of us cared that much to try and make up..

I didn't really like the people when they were sitting next to me at lunch, and I didn't really like them when I was now sitting all the way across the cafeteria from them. It wasn't even out of malice; I just really didn't care. I only had a few months and then I'd be off to college. Granted, so far it was only community college in the next county until I heard back from my other colleges in the next month (LSU and my long shot, Tulane, but only if I got that full-paid tuition scholarship that I'd worked my ass off writing three essays for), but it meant me getting out of here and that's all that mattered.

Gran worried about me, and it was very obvious despite how hard she'd tried to hide it. Jason was much more vocal, since he didn't understand why I wasn't going to the same parties and hanging out with the younger siblings of the same people he'd hung out with and had so much fun with. On more than one occasion he'd told me I could have been the female version of him, even though that was the exact opposite of who I was and who I wanted to be.

But once I told Gran about my new job, her face lit up with a big grin, and she hugged me—more like squeezed me—for at least a minute or two afterwards. I could tell she wanted me to make some friends there. She wasn't the only one super excited about my new job; I barely got a wink of sleep that night.

**EPOV**

Waiting those two days to call Sookie—_only to offer her a job at Looney Tunes_—was unfathomably hard. Embarrassingly hard.

I should have known it'd be that way since that night we first met and I had to drive to Bon Temps, where she lived. Everywhere I looked, I thought of her. _Does she go to that gas station to fill up, or the one across the street? Does she go to that pizza place with her friends? Does she take this road to go to school? Does she live nearby?_ _Was that her car that just passed me?_

But it wasn't until after I called Sookie that I realized that waiting to see her again would be even harder. Luckily no one else noticed how my head popped up once my peripheral vision spotted someone blond walk in through the doors, or how when I picked what songs we were listening to, they mostly were ones she had picked, like they would be a siren calling out to her. They didn't, though.

It was a good thing we were so busy and there was so much to do, otherwise I would have driven myself more insane just thinking about her.

Instead, I drove myself insane spending more time working than I did sleeping, and during the time I was working, doing things that I wasn't getting paid enough to do. I really needed Stan to get back from his fucking vacation. Or maybe Sookie to come in.

Sookie was first, arriving at quarter of three Wednesday afternoon, looking better than a pick-me-up cup of coffee. She was wearing a gray longish cardigan—I think they're called grandfather cardigans, which I'm gonna stick with because I don't like the thought of the sweater being her boyfriend's—with a white tank top and a pair of dark wash jeans tucked into little black boots. Though her clothes sounded androgynous, they looked feminine—especially on her body.

Which I wasn't admiring. Not at all.

Once she noticed me, she smiled brightly at me. If that happened after seeing her once and talking to her twice, then what reaction would I get once I knew her well? I couldn't wait to find out.

I returned the smile and saluted her, to my embarrassment. Seriously, where the hell did that come from? Like I was a fucking lieutenant or something?

But Sookie just beamed and nonchalantly saluted me back before she walked over to me. "Hi, Eric," she said, sounding chipper but not annoyingly so.

"Hey, Sookie. Ready to work?" I asked, gesturing for her to join me behind the counter, which she did.

From my peripheral vision I saw Chow pick his head up from the list of on-sale items he was looking at over to my left. He smiled once he saw who I was talking to.

Once I left a post-it note on the calendar in the back room saying there'd be a new employee, Sookie Stackhouse, Amelia had instantly Facebooked her. Big mistake. She had done it at work, so everyone had crowded around that computer once she announced, "Guys, I think I found her!"

See, Amelia was a Facebook stalker. I didn't mind it when she looked up the girls who gave me their names and numbers, but it was different with Sookie. I didn't want anyone else looking her up.

Luckily Sookie's profile was as private as possible on Facebook, but you could still see her profile picture. Personally, I thought Sookie looked beautiful in her profile picture (one of her in a blue sundress, squinting in the sunlight), but unfortunately I wasn't the only one. Ever since seeing her picture, everyone had been looking forward to meeting her—Amelia so she would finally have a girl to talk to at work, and me and every other employee for the same reason, but not exactly.

"This is Chow," I said, introducing him as he stuck a hand out for her to shake.

"Nice to meet you, Chow. I'm Sookie," she said, sounding as polite as if she were talking to an elderly lady at a tea party, and not a guy with sleeve tattoos and a purposefully tight black tee that revealed the outline of his one nipple ring—seriously, just one nipple ring. Like it hurt so much he couldn't go through with getting the other one pierced. Or at least, that's how I liked to think of it when he pissed me off. Which was now.

"Nice to meet you too," he replied, smiling at her like the cat who licked the cream.

"Chow, I'm going to take Sookie to the back room to get her papers and name tag all sorted out," I said, somewhat immaturely. _Back off, I got this_, my body language hopefully subtly screamed. "You can get back to the on-sale lists later, but for now just watch the registers for a while. Amelia's organizing the books if you need any help." _I'm the boss around here. _

He smiled again at Sookie before walking away to ring up a customer.

"Amelia's actually the only other girl working here," I explained to Sookie, "and I know she's excited to meet you. We can stop by and see her before we go in the back room, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," she replied easily, following me over to the shirts.

As soon as she saw us, Amelia practically threw her stack of books on the table and met us halfway, taking Sookie's hand in hers before she introduced herself. Amelia was always chatty—which was a good thing when it came to persuading customers to join our email list but also a bad thing whenever I was in the middle of an eight hour shift and hadn't eaten or smoked all day—but today she took it to a whole new level, managing to introduce herself, compliment Sookie on her boots, and say how they'd be best friends all in the same first sentence.

Sookie looked a little overwhelmed at first, but soon they eased into it, and I kind of zoned out of their conversation when I saw two teenage guys in backpacks looking at the gift section—teenage guys and backpacks almost always equaled paperwork for me.

About a year ago, I caught this guy stealing CDs and chased him out of the store. And then I threw his bike at him (he had been trying to get on his bike when I caught up to him) and I nailed him to stop him. It had felt fucking _badass_. I wouldn't mind doing it again. Stan was so impressed he didn't even report the thing to management, and he'd bought me my lunch that day.

Amelia noticed what I was doing, and brought me back to the conversation. "I got it, Eric. You can go back to showing Sookie around," she said, nodding at the guys' backs.

"Great. Thanks. Sookie, if you'll just follow me," I said, trailing off at the end as we started walking together.

I couldn't help but notice that she seemed tiny from my height, tiny and petite. She made it up to my shoulder. And, okay, so I snuck a peek down her shirt. It'd be impossible not to, even unwillingly, with the size of her breasts and the height advantage I had on her.

_She's still in high school you fucking creep_, I had to remind myself.

"You weren't kidding about her being excited to meet me," Sookie joked once we were walking down a CD aisle to get to the back room.

I lazily flicked a CD back to its upright position as I replied, "Well, we're currently a little short on staff, so everyone's been looking forward to having you here. And it'll be good to have some fresh blood in here." _Hot blood, too. Hot, young, undrinkable blood. _

I saw Clancy—Big C, as he liked to be called since he hated his name and was even taller than me—helping a customer by grabbing a book on one of the highest shelves, and when he turned around to hand the book over he caught my eye. He cocked my head towards Sookie and smirked; I just looked at him. If Sookie saw our exchange, she didn't say anything.

"Well, here we are," I said once we arrived in front of the metal "Employees Only" door.

"Ooh, it's so exciting that I'll finally be able to enter one of these doors! The notorious 'employees only' door!" she exclaimed, adorably.

"Yep," I said, falling under her grin as I reached to unhook my keys from my belt buckle. I finally got the right one and unlocked the door, taking the two steps in that I could to hold the door for her.

The back room was always tiny and messy, but I never really understood it until it was just me and Sookie in it. We were huddled next to the big water bubbler and a coffee pot that no one but Amelia used. Sookie's eyes widened as she took in the wall of last season's label-sent promo CDs and miscellaneous cardboard boxes with hastily scribbled labels.

There was an office, with two computers and a bunch of other supplies that you'd expect to find, and I led Sookie to it. It was a little easier to breathe and think in there. I invited Sookie to sit in one of the office chairs as I got out the various pieces of paper she'd have to sign and read. I meant to get it all organized this morning, but I overslept and got to work on time instead of an hour early like I'd planned.

It was quiet when I bent over a filing cabinet. Self-conciously, I felt the back of my shirt—a faded, hole-y Pogues shirt I've had for forever—rising up, and I reached back to tug at it before I stopped. I've been told many times before that I had a sexy ass, and maybe showing some skin in front of Sookie wouldn't hurt. It's not like I had a butterfly tramp stamp to worry about back there. And it was just some harmless lower back showing; I wasn't planning on actually taking my shirt off. I'm too damn skinny for that.

"I like the poster," Sookie said finally as I was searching for the employee handbook in one of the filing cabinets, and I looked over my shoulder to see which poster she was looking at. It was the Ziggy Stardust-era one of David Bowie.

_Oh yeah? That all you like? _I thought as I squatted.

"Yeah? Thanks. It's one I put up, since it's on my side of the office," I said.

Stan and I had a very strong relationship in and out of work, but we were both adamant about picking sides of the office and what we could decorate with—something fueled by the fact that he was a relentless Texan country music outlaw and I was a rocker at heart. Needless to say, I had posters of Bowie, Iggy Pop, an obviously out-of-it Keith Richards, and the famous Joy Division album cover, whereas Stan had ones of Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, and Elvis Presley. We both agreed on a Lady Gaga one to go in the middle of the room, oddly enough. What? She was awesome.

"So is this on your side of the office too?" she asked, and I turned around again. She was pointing to the Maxim calendar over my PC, and smiling at me like she just beat me at a debate.

"No, that's Amelia's corner," I cracked, satisfied that I made her laugh. "But all right, yeah. It was just a gag gift. Anyway, I just need you to fill these out. I'll need to see your driver's license again, by the way."

I handed the papers and a pen to her, and when she was working on those I opened drawers, wishing I remembered which one had the blank name tags in it. Once I found one and made one for her, I laid it on the desk next to her and sat down on the chair facing her. I only had to wait a minute, and then she lifted her head up and smiled softly. "Done."

I looked everything over and signed what I needed to. "Great. Okay. That's your nametag. And this is the office, but it's really more like a hangout room for whoever's on break at the time. And the closet we were in is unfortunately our break room. It's where you punch in, which I'll show you how to do now."

After showing her how to get her time card set and where we put our bags and coats—which she did, putting her purse next to Amelia's—we went back on the floor, walking side-by-side as Sookie took in the sights. There was a lot to remember, but I tried to put her at ease by saying even I was having trouble knowing where random shit—stuff, I corrected myself in front of her, causing her to giggle—was. She seemed a little better after that.

Big C and Quinn were at the registers, talking idly as they went through two separate used buys, and they both stopped and introduced themselves to Sookie.

I knew Big C had a girlfriend—even though her name was Thalia, we called her Little T whenever she came in to drop off cookies for everyone, which had been a lot recently since she knew how stressed we all were and she was a bartender and had the days off—but I also knew Quinn was a pig when it came to girls, so I was only mildly concerned. Or, just concerned when Quinn kissed Sookie's hand. Big C rolled his eyes at me, and I shook my head right back. Sookie just smiled nervously at him and then looked to me.

"So that's everyone you had to meet today, at least. Stan comes back in three days, and besides him there's Barry and one other part-time person that I haven't hired yet."

"And you will, if you don't want to have to go and replace me," Quinn said, trying to joke. Prick.

He looked encouragingly at Sookie, but she didn't smile at him. If anything, she looked a little uncomfortable, since she knew how stressful everything was around here. Quinn just wasn't doing himself any favors.

Everyone was looking at me to see how I'd respond—Sookie and Big C because they knew Quinn was being an ass right now, and Quinn because he thought I couldn't top that.

"Yeah, but until then I need you to sticker these on-sale items, Quinn, so here you go," I said finally, rubbing my Vitruvian man tattoo before picking up the papers and thrusting them at him.

"But what about the used buys?" he asked.

Shit, I had forgotten about that. Usually if you were doing a used buy you did it until it was done—it just went that no one interfered, just like it just went that no one looked over your shoulder when you were on the computer to make sure you weren't on Facebook during "valuable company time"—but I had broken that.

Thankfully, Big C picked up on it and said, "Come on, man, you just started anyway," and walked away, Quinn trailing afterwards once he took the papers from me and stole a last look at Sookie.

It was just me and Sookie standing there until she broke the silence, saying, "So what's the game plan, boss?" I laughed as I scratched behind my ear to try and distract myself from thinking about how she just called me the boss. I didn't want her to think of me as her boss … but I kinda liked how she said it.

"I'll go through this used buy, which is when a customer brings in CDs, DVDs, or video games and we go through and check them for scratches before we pay the customer for whatever we can take. Don't worry, you won't have to do that for a while," I assured her, noticing her eyebrows had furrowed. "And when I'm doing that, you can take the good ones and bag them in their appropriate plastic bags before putting a price sticker on them."

"Okay."

I brought her over the bags and tags and the stuff Quinn had already went through, and then we went to work. She was a little slow, but that was to be expected on her first day. I finished first and was going to help her finish when Amelia came over, asking to go on break.

"Fuck, I'm sorry. Yeah, go ahead," I said, apologizing to her, and then apologizing to Sookie again for swearing in front of her once Amelia left.

"Eric, seriously, don't worry about it. I have an older brother, so it's nothing I haven't heard before," she said, waving it off.

_An older brother, huh_? _Exactly how much older are we talking?_

"What's he like?" I asked, grateful for her sharing. I leaned back against the desk, but almost immediately had to go to a customer, to ring him up.

Thankfully he was only buying a CD, and thankfully Sookie resumed our conversation as soon as I wished him a good day. "His name is Jason, and he's twenty-four. He's a member of a construction group in Bon Temps, but his primary occupation is as a ladies man," she explained.

_I was closer in age to her older brother, and she was closer in age to my younger one. Funny. _

I winced at the realization but covered it up by asking, "Are you two close?"

"Um, not really," she answered, drawing the conversation to an end.

_Will he kill me if I do anything with you?_

"Any other siblings?" I asked.

"Nope."

I was scared she'd ask me if I had any siblings, but I also wanted her to. It'd be bad if I told her I had a younger brother who was her age, because that would put a perspective on our ages that I didn't necessarily want her to see. I was selfish like that. But on the other hand, if she asked personal questions about me, it'd mean she had at least the bare minimum of interest in me. And that was good.

Instead she said, "So, all done. What now?"

"Now they go on the cart," I said, pointing to it.

She walked in front of me to put them on the wooden cart, finding some room in between all of the other DVDs and CDs on it.

I continued, "This is where we put stuff that can go back out on the floor. And I'm thinking now you can get to work on the cart now—put stuff away, and get a feel for where things go around here. It'll be like a treasure hunt. And if you need any help, I'll be right here."

She smiled before taking a large stack of CDs in her arms. "Okay."

I kept an eye on her, the top of her blond head barely making it past the CD racks. When she wasn't looking, I tried to organize the cart as much as possible—separate the TV show DVDs from the movie ones, put the blues CDs in their own section—but only when she wasn't looking. But I stopped once I saw her placing a Diana Krall away in the jazz section and a De La Soul in the hip-hop one even though I hadn't had time to group them. Sookie knew her music.

She was quiet and hardworking. Sometimes I'd say something when she passed me to go to the cart—little things like, "How's it going?" and "All good?" And she'd answer simply too. But it's funny, 'cause when she needed some help putting a DVD or CD in the right section then she'd start up the conversation, asking if I'd seen it and then giving me her opinion on it if I hadn't. To me, our interactions made a good antidote to the constant stream of customers.

To calm myself down after dealing with a particularly ornery customer—an old broad with obviously fake dyed red hair that made me go through her whole receipt to make sure everything rang up as it should have, which it did—I thought back to my first day working at Looney Tunes.

I had been a loyal customer the whole time I was in college, often spending my food money on vinyl, which is something I actually still did. Every staff member there knew me, knew what I liked—often putting things aside for me when they came in, without even being asked—and it just got the point when the manager, a guy named Lee, was confiding to me about how much the new employees sucked when I had a light bulb moment and suggested he hire me. Which he did, a nanosecond later. When I started the next day, it just felt like I got to shop in the store for six hours, only now I was shopping for the customers.

And thankfully, it still feels like that, or else I would have gone back to grad school or got a new job—a grown-up job, as my father likes to call it whenever we talk, which I try to make as infrequent as possible. Because for all of the bitching and moaning I do about this job—which is a lot when I'm stressed as fuck like I am now—I would much rather wear what I want and play what I want and work when I want than get a real nine-to-five job. And if that means I don't have enough money to buy an environmentally-friendly car or the latest iPod or even a fancy razor, then that's fine.

I stayed in this for the people and the music; there's no excitement like the one I get when someone brings in a rare or previously unreleased edition of something, or when I get to talk to that someone about it. For every terrible customer there is, like the one I just had to wait on, there's three awesome ones, ones that just get it. Like I said, it's all about the people and the music for me. And once I get enough money to open my own bar, it'll probably be the same but even better 'cause there'll be beer involved. But until then …

Amelia came back from her half-hour break, and reminded me it was time for mine. She was good like that—we called her the mother of the group, because it was easier to think of her like that. Sookie would be your best friend's baby sister who always wanted to play with the gang (or maybe the second-cousin you used to play with all the time) until she got boobs and that made you feel a little funny about her. We were kind of a boys club at the store, farting and making dick jokes and talking about what we smoked or drank last night or with whom. Amelia never cared, often shooting her own shit about her last-night shenanigans, but I didn't know if Sookie would. That's mostly why I had kept apologizing for my swearing, but it seemed like she might be able to swear and burp with the rest of us.

"Your turn, Eric. Get some food in you, or just chill out. You need to. It's clouding your chi," Amelia urged me once she came back from checking herself in.

"Yeah, yeah." I looked around the store, and it seemed reasonably quiet.

If I called the pizza place down the street now, they'd have my chicken parm calzone done by the time I was there. And I could eat it in the office, in case there were any problems that needed to be brought to my attention. That worked.

I looked around the store—nothing Amelia couldn't handle.

"Sookie's working on the cart, and she probably won't finish in a half hour because she still has the whole back to do. I don't think she knows there's a back, so just let tell her and that'll keep her busy. And everyone else knows what they're supposed to be doing, so you'll be fine. You can have the registers for now," I told her, already fingering my cigarette pack.

"Got it." She paused, before carefully adding, "So, what do you think about Sookie? I like her."

I looked over at Sookie, who was heading back up here for more DVDs. "Me too. She'll be a good fit around here."

"You mean for you." Amelia snorted. I looked at her and she rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on Eric, it's obvious."

The game was up. "Like, how obvious are we talking?"

"Pretty sure she has no clue, like the rest of them. But I can just tell you're into her, and she seems to like you a lot."

I stored that away for further consideration. "It's not like it matters. You know management's policy on inter-company dating."

"So? I say go for it. Sookie's cute. You'd balance each other out. Good girls always go for the bad guys, don't you think?"

Based on past conquests, I didn't just _think, _I knew. But still, I threw her a look to shut up as Sookie came within hearing distance; we were, after all, right in front of the cart. I could only hope she didn't hear our conversation.

"Hey, Sookie, I'm going to step out for my break, and you can go once I'm done. If there's any trouble, Amelia will be right here," I told her.

"Oh. Okay. Have fun," Sookie said, smiling at me. She was always smiling.

I yawned, and Amelia kinda pushed me away. "Seriously, Eric, just go. And pick up a Red Bull while you're at it."

I laughed. "A Red Bull? Aren't you supposed to tell me those are bad for my body or whatever?"

Amelia was this organic hippie hipster, and not because she was the only twenty-something I knew with a garden (and one that grew both vegetables and pot). She was always telling me I was too skinny for my own good, alternating between bringing me weirdly good homemade soy whatever-things or these granola bars that had as much protein as four steaks. Actually, the only time she didn't bring up my skinniness was when we smoked together or she gave me a good price on her homegrown weed, because I always got the worst case of the munchies and she knew it all too well.

"No, that's just the sugar-free Red Bull." She laughed and waved me away before turning to talk to Sookie, and with that I started my walk to the back room, interrupted twice by customers asking where a particular artist or CD would be. _Of course._

My break went smoothly, as I was sitting comfortably in the back office eating a part of heaven that most common folk called a calzone. I figured I could multitask and work on the schedules for next week when I realized … I never checked with Sookie about _her _schedule. I wrote myself a note on a post-it note and stuck in on my shoulder; everyone here knew if I had something I wanted to remember, I put a post-it note somewhere noticeable and I trained them to know that if they saw it, they were to remind me.

Satisfied, I finished my meal and went outside to smoke another cigarette before it was back to work.

**SPOV**

The first day of work wasn't as hard as I thought it would be, but it definitely was as nerve-wracking as I'd anticipated. I mean, I knew Eric said he'd be around to help me if I needed it, but he was around almost all the time except for when I wasn't putting out CDs and DVDs on the racks. His presence made me completely self-conscious even though I was sure he had no idea.

I was sure I wasn't having the same effect on him. He was so out of my league, and not just because he was my boss and older than me and stuff. Now that he wasn't wearing a beanie like last time, I could see his hair was golden blond and shaggy like he spent all day at the beach filming a hair wax commercial. He was really tall and skinny, but skinny with muscles. His arms flexed a lot. And he looked like a sexy rock star, with his Pogues shirt, holey jeans, and black Beatle boots. If it turned out he played guitar or sang in a band, the fantasy would be complete and I'd die of spontaneous sexual combustion.

He had all these little quirks I picked up on—rubbing his tattoo (which I still had yet to see in all of its glory) when he was agitated, curving his lip a little when he came across a used CD that he liked, and singing along to the songs he picked from various used CDs or employee iPods. I noticed and made a note of all of them, as I was sure no one else at the store had done before.

I also quickly learned that Eric was the only one who picked the music; I didn't know if that's because he was in charge of the registers, which was where the music controls were, or if he was the most senior employee on staff or something. I did know I wasn't going try to play something since it was my first day and I thought the whole thing would be terribly intimidating. But I liked the music he played, so it wasn't a big deal for me.

His taste was really unexpected; he'd go through a Motown playlist to a Madonna compilation CD and know the words to practically every song in both genres; add that in to the David Bowie and Keef Richards posters I saw on his side of the office and he was like a walking, talking musical encyclopedia.

My favorite quirk was when he'd randomly start doing some air-guitar or air-piano or air-bass or, hell, air-flute when a solo came up in a song. He just looked so free, not caring that he was acting like a fool as long as he was having a good time.

In fact, everyone who worked here seemed like they were having a good time, except for that Quinn guy, maybe. He made me feel a little creeped out with his over-the-top maybe-flirts, but I hadn't really been around him for that long. Big C was quiet but friendly; one time when a customer asked me if we had any swing music I had stalled, but it had only seemed to go on for one scary second before Big C appeared out of nowhere and asked the man what he was looking for. I had smiled appreciatively at him, and he'd only grinned and nodded his head before leading the man down the aisle.

And Amelia was shaping up to be my second-favorite co-worker after Eric, of course. I recognized her as the girl with cashier problems from the only other time I'd been here but I didn't say anything to her or Quinn, who I also remembered. But I could already tell I'd get along much better with Amelia than Quinn. Plus, she was the only other girl there, and when she said we'd share a girl-power bond I actually knew what she was talking about, and felt it too. Eric had said she was like their mother, but I knew she'd end up being the cool older sister I'd never had.

Since she took over on the registers, she got to pick out the songs, which were mostly folksy tunes that I had on my iPod. We talked a lot about our similar tastes in music, and she gave me a bunch of recommendations of people or bands I was unfamiliar with by playing them just so I could hear them. The only time she was in charge of playing music, and she played songs for me—I was floored.

Amelia was so nice, and Eric was so nice too; they weren't making me feel like the "new girl" at all, and I appreciated it because this was my first actual job that wasn't babysitting or chores and I felt a little overwhelmed. But like Eric, Amelia never made me stupid when I asked where something went or when a customer was looking for an item that I didn't know if we carried.

One thing about Amelia was that she was very, very chatty. She talked a lot about herself—like how she majored in art history and just started photography and now shoots weddings and bat mitzvahs for extra cash but she really wants to work as a landscape photographer—but she also made me talk a lot about myself. Like when she asked me about boys, it wasn't in a gossipy, braggy way like girls in my high school; she just wanted to know more about me, and was floored when I told her I'd never had a boyfriend and had only been kissed by one guy—Bill Compton—and that was enough to make me break off all contact with boys ever since.

"Seriously? You've only been kissed once?" she asked, putting down the stack of used DVDs she was going through. "How bad was it?"

There was no way I was going to tell her. Instead, I whispered, "Amelia! Shh!" as I looked around to make sure no one—like Eric, because my luck's so cruddy he would come back from break just in time to hear that—overheard her.

"Sorry, sorry. It's just, wow, Sookie! You're so cute and sweet and pretty I just figured guys would be tripping over themselves to, like, hold your books and walk you to class and stuff!" she said.

I didn't know what to say to that. Amelia was just so bubbly and extroverted I literally didn't know how to handle her, just because I'd never met anyone like her. So I just shrugged.

I shrugged. "I don't know. It's just that the boys in my school are really dumb and immature and, like, everyone just hooks up with each other at parties and I'm not really into that, you know? I don't even like most of the kids at my school when they're sober, and they're monsters when they're drunk."

Amelia kind of got the message and started talking about her cooking hobbies and it kind of went on from there.

A little later I was walking back behind the counter when I saw Eric walking down a parallel CD aisle, waiting for me to notice him. I smiled at him, and he kind of just lifted his eyebrows (from what I could see of them, since they were hidden under his shaggy hair) and smiled.

"Just going out for a last-minute cigarette break and then it's your turn," he said once we met up. He was a fast walker, and I had to walk a little quicker to keep up the conversation.

"Oh, sure, take your time," I said. I didn't want him to think I was going to pester him about my break because I hadn't even thought about it, but I didn't know how to say that.

"You don't smoke, do you?" he asked, his head down as he dug into his jeans pocket to take out his lighter.

"Nope," I replied. By this time we were at the counter, except I was going behind it and he was stopped in front of it to talk to me.

"Good," he said, almost at the same time as Amelia, who was close enough to be a part of our conversation without making it weird.

"I never understood why people did stupid stuff they wouldn't want other people to do, like smoking," I said.

"Yeah, that's a good observation. I wish I didn't smoke, just because it's so expensive, but I've just been so stressed out that I feel like I need it, which sucks," Eric said.

He did that thing I remembered from our first meeting where he'd look at you, then look down at the ground and smile, and then look back up at you as the smile was fading. The whole thing was just as cute then as it was now.

I was watching him, but Amelia wasn't; she snorted and moved away to help a customer. But before she did she turned to me and said, "Good luck trying to get him to quit; I've been trying to do that for as long as I've known him, or at least get him to use herbal cigarettes."

"Amelia, please, you don't get to talk to me about 'herbal cigarettes,'" Eric said, shooting her a playful but dirty look as he walked out the doors.

Once Amelia finished bagging I asked her what Eric meant.

"It's nothing. I just grow pot and sell it to my friends, and even though Eric's, like, one of my best customers he says if I smoke pot with him I can't harp on him for smoking cigarettes. Which is totally unfair, you know? Marijuana has medicinal benefits, whereas nicotine just has crazy un-medicinal side effects."

She was so casual about it. Amelia, and I guess Eric too, were nothing like the scowling, mute stoner crowd in my high school. I had never smoked pot, just because I was never around it, and almost within a second Amelia figured that out about me. She didn't make me feel like a little girl scout about it though; she just asked and then nodded understandingly when I answered her.

By that time I had moved to the CD aisles to put stuff away, and I nearly dropped my armload of cases when I turned around and Eric was right behind me. I could smell the smoke of his cigarettes on him, he was so close.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," he said, reaching out and placing a hand on my arm for a second in his absentminded concern. It was the same thing Gran's friends did to me when they asked about school and said I looked nice, but somehow Eric's hand was hotter, heavier even.

"That's okay."

He took his hand off of me and now it was holding his hip. Eric's shirt had ridden up with the action and I could see a pale slice of skin flirting with me.

"I just came to find you and tell you that you can go on break now. Remember, you get a half hour, and you have to check your time card before and after your break like I showed you," he said.

"Thanks," I said, smiling. "Let me just finish with these guys and then I'll go."

"Nope, forget about 'em."

What was he talking about? I had my hands full of CDs, so it'd probably be easier to put them away then put them down and then pick them up again. "No, really, it's fine, Eric. Five minutes, tops."

"C'mon, just leave 'em here, put 'em down," he said. When I just stared at him, he smiled, took the stack of CDs out of my hands, and just put them on the shelf that was above every CD section.

"Okay. Um, so what is there to do around here on break?" I asked. I remembered seeing a gas station down the block, but that was really about it. And a half hour was a really long time to spend at a gas station.

He scratched his hair, tucking some of the longer strands behind his ears. "There's a pizza place nearby, a deli, a coffee shop, and a gas station all within driving distance. You could always use the back room to check Facebook or, uh, do some of your homework if you had any, I guess. Mostly I just stand in the parking lot and chain-smoke, but you shouldn't do that 'cause it's bad for you and stuff."

He blushed a little at the end, which of course I thought it was cute.

"Oh. Okay. Thanks," I said. "You said the key to the back room was behind the counter, right?"

He grinned. "Good girl. But, I have a key on me, so I was planning on just walking you back there because I have to sign myself back in."

And with that, Eric started walking towards the room, so I had no choice but to follow behind him.

Like last time, he held the door out for me once he stepped inside, in kind of an anti-hero gentleman action. But the doorway was so small and cramped I practically had to hug him to enter the room. I got my time ticket that I had signed earlier and put it in the machine, and though it was like the easiest thing in the world to do it was hard with Eric behind me, behind my ass, watching me. I had to almost pivot to where I had put my purse while Eric nonchalantly got his time stamp without anyone observing _him_ over his shoulder.

"So … first break," he said once he was finished and we were walking back to the counter.

"Yeah, I think I'll grab a slice of pizza and a soda, and then just read for a bit," I replied.

My hand accidentally brushed his when we rounded an aisle, but neither one of us acknowledged it.

"Yeah? What are you reading?" he said, as if nothing happened.

"_The Scarlet Letter_. It's for English class, and I have to finish it by tomorrow for an essay-test."

"I think I read that book for English class in high school. I didn't like it too much, but Demi Moore was hot in the movie." His eyes crinkled a little when he smiled at me.

"The movie's nothing like the book though!" I exclaimed.

He shrugged. "Doesn't mean Demi Moore isn't hot."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes; he was reminding me of Jason so much right now. "Yeah, okay. Well, see you when I get back."

"Bye," he replied, walking behind the counter and ducking down to fool around with the music that was playing.

I ended up getting a slice of pizza and reading my book like I told Eric I would, but I also called Gran to tell her all about my first day—or, well, three hours—at work. She was excited for me, and seemed especially interested in Eric and what he was like and what he looked like. I had told her about him when I first told her I thought I got a job at Looney Tunes and that he'd be like my boss, but you'd think I told her he was a wedding suitor with the way she was going on about him.

Even though I was at a dingy little pizza place down the street from Eric, I still turned tomato red and looked around to see if anyone was nearby.

"Gran, he's older than me! Like, as old as Jason! And he's my boss on top of all that! I don't know why you're getting all excited about him."

But I did. Gran wanted me to go to prom and school dances and break curfew, but I never did. I assumed after the hell Jason put her through in high school she'd welcome my staying in all the time, but that's what happens when you assume, I guess.

Plus, Eric was the first boy I'd talked about in a long time, even if it was for just a couple sentences. Of course she'd jump on it.

"So? Your grandfather was four years older than me," she scoffed in a very un-Gran way.

I closed my eyes in annoyance for a second. This was so embarrassing!

"Yeah, well, it's not the same. And I gotta go back now because my break's almost over, so I gotta drive back now," I said, getting up and throwing away my trash.

When I walked back into Looney Tunes, Eric was at the registers, and just like earlier today he gave me that same little army salute. Was that a thing? Was it some sort of goofy inside joke I didn't know we had?

Grinning and ducking my head, I walked behind the registers, past where he was looking at something on on the computer.

"So how was the first break?" he asked me, eyes never leaving the screen.

_I talked about you with my Gran. She wants us to fall in love, and I think I'm okay with that, so whaddya say, Eric?_

Instead, I answered, "Eh, it was fine. Pizza wasn't bad."

I opened the drawer I thought held the key to the backroom, but all I saw were price tags.

"It's the one on the left, yeah, there. You were close, though," I heard Eric say, and I looked over my shoulder to see he was now sitting on the counter against the window, watching me.

"Thanks," I said, opening the drawers and taking out the key.

"Their calzones are better," he said, and it took me a minute to realize he was talking about the pizza place.

"I'll have to try them sometime."

He just nodded and closed his eyes as he started playing air guitar for the solo in the Runaways' "Cherry Bomb," which was playing now.

Smiling a little to myself, I went to the backroom and got my time stamp and put my purse away, and then walked back to the counter, where Eric was still sitting down and playing. His eyes were open though, and he lazily watched me walk over to him.

"Shipment's supposed to be here any moment, which is when we get merch from the headquarters. Your new releases and products, stuff we've sold out on or are running low on, and your miscellaneous items—those kinds of things. When it gets here, you and Big C will unload the truck with whoever the driver is, and then once that's done you have to put the stuff away in the store. It'll be good for you to see where non CD or DVD items go," he explained.

Leaning against the same table Eric was sitting on, I nodded my head.

I could smell the lingering traces of his cigarette smoke, but there was also something citrusy about him too. It was an odd mix, but it still managed to be pleasant. And of course that made me wonder, what did I smell like? I had put deodorant on today, didn't I? Christ, I hoped so.

"But until then, I guess you can start bagging and tagging these used CDs and DVDs like I showed you earlier, right?" he asked, getting up when a customer walked up to the cash registers.

"Right." I went over and got the bags and price tags and a stack of CDs and put them in the same place he was working on them earlier. He alternated between ringing people up and looking for stuff on the Internet; I realized sometimes he did that whenever a customer asked for something that wasn't in the inventory system you could look stuff up in on the computer.

He also answered the phone—the people working the floor, he told me, all had phones and were supposed to pick them up as soon as they started ringing, but sometimes they couldn't so he had to do it. I was glad I didn't have to answer the phone, and the customer's questions on the other end of the line. But Eric didn't seem intimidated by it—he'd always drawl, "Looney Tunes Shreveport, this is Eric, how can I help ya?" and always seemed cool, never struggling with any questions. I envied that.

I was always aware of where he was, and how close he was to me. He wasn't much of a talker sometimes, but other times it seemed like he'd rather talk than work. And he always would rather play air-guitar; it was cute.

Most of what we talked about was our favorite music, which was to be expected given I was new working at a record store. We had a lot of favorites in common, in addition to the Warren Zevon love we discovered the first day we met. He hated U2 though, and shook his head when I gasped in horror and said I loved them.

"It's just … Bono, I guess. I don't like Bono, but Bono pretty much is U2, so therefore I don't like U2. Edge, though—that's a fine nickname he's got there."

"Why don't you like Bono?" I asked.

"I find him pretentious, especially his name. Like, who the fuck picks his nickname to mean 'good' in some language no one ever speaks? He started out as a rock star, and now he's like some globe-traveling do-gooder who thinks he's martyring himself for Africa. I just think if you're gonna be a rock star, be a rock star, you know? I don't mind that he's a philanthropist; I just mind that he minds he's a philanthropist. And I can't get over it."

"What, do you hate Bill Gates too?" I asked.

Eric looked over at me, even though we were almost side-by-side bagging and tagging. "What?"

"Because Bill Gates started out as a computer tech guy, right? And now he's almost more known for the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation and for being a gazillionaire, even though that's not how he started out."

He stared at me, eyes widened in appraising surprise. It was like I could see him gaining more respect for me. After a moment, he asked, "Damn. Are you on the debate team at school?"

Trying not to be flushed with pride, I shook my head. "No. My school doesn't even have a debate team."

Eric mumbled, "You should make one." Then he stopped bagging and turned so he was facing me. "Hey, you know what? Go pick out a U2 CD, Sookie."

Now it was my turn to stare. "What?"

"Yeah, and make sure you get a used one, since we can easily unwrap it and then put it in the plastic again. You earned it. But if you wanted to be nice and pick an album from before the 2000s, that's cool with me," he explained.

I still didn't move. Eric was letting me pick the music? And from a band he despised? On my first day?

"Come on, go before I change my mind," he said, smiling at me and placing a hand on my shoulder for a few seconds. When I still didn't move, he smiled and pushed me a little, and that got me the start I needed. I walked over to the "U" section of the CDs, feeling his eyes on me the whole time, since you could see all the racks from the counter.

What to pick? I ended up going with _War_, and made my way back to the counter. I didn't know how to work the stereo and Eric was helping a counter, so I just placed it on the stereo and went back to bagging and tagging. When Eric was finished, he called me over so he could show me how to play a CD, and then "Sunday Bloody Sunday" started playing. He smiled at me but didn't say anything.

Quinn came over once the song finished, leaning against the counter top that I was on the other side of. "U2, Eric? Thought you hated these pricks," he said. He winked at me, for no apparent reason.

"I do, but Sookie made me see something good in them so this is her victory prize," Eric explained, looking up at Quinn.

"Oh. Then, good choice, Sookie," Quinn said, winking at me again.

I smiled with my mouth closed. He flip-flopped sides faster than an actual flip flop.

"Yo, Eric, shipment's here, BTW," Quinn added, almost as an afterthought.

"What? Really? I didn't see it pull in!" Eric said, clearly surprised. He even looked out the door to see the parking lot.

Quinn shrugged. "I dunno. Mark's at the back door and Big C's already helping him. Want me to take over the counter so you can count it?"

Eric looked at me, and then back at Quinn. "Yeah, sure. Sookie's going to be doing shipment too."

I saw Quinn's face fall a little as I walked past him to the back with Eric. I wondered if Eric saw it too.

The back door was opened, and Big C and a bald, heavily tattooed man with a red bushy beard were carrying boxes in from outside. There was a clipboard on the table in the back, and Eric picked it up and started rifling through the papers on it.

"Sookie, can you help them bring in boxes?" he asked absentmindedly, scribbling something on a paper.

I dutifully followed Big C outside and looked in the van; it was your ordinary van—the big white kind robbers or spies use in movies to hide all their equipment in or do surveillance work in—but had the Looney Tunes logo on it (a record player with a carrot as the needle). The boxes were big and heavy, and I kind of waddled while carrying them in, but I managed to get it done. The guys didn't struggle as much as me, obviously.

Eric counted them and then signed some stuff on the papers before giving it to tattoo guy. "Thanks, man. Heard Narc's playing at Bloodhound on Saturday?"

The tattoo guy who I assumed was Mark nodded and smiled, showing two gold teeth. "Right on. You doing sound that night, or can you come up and play with us for a few?"

Eric nodded. "Yeah, I'll be there for sound. They want me doing lights too, so that'll be fun." He didn't sound too happy about it.

"Cool, man. See you there, if I don't do a drop-off here before then."

They did some bro handshake, and then he was gone. Big C was already taking some of the smaller, more rectangular boxes and walking to the front desk.

"Oh, if there are any boxes with CDs or DVDs—used or new—just bring them up to the front like Big C is and whoever's up there will sort them out and put them on the cart. Also, you can bring up any body jewelry to put in the jewel case or playing cards, 'cause they all get security stickers put on them. Other than that, it's pretty simple. Just open a box and start wandering around the store. If you can't find anything, feel free to just ask Big C or me or someone, okay?" Eric told me.

He must have thought I looked a little confused, because he went and gave me a reassuring pat on the arm before heading up front, but I was really just trying to be nosy and figure out what kind of secret code he was talking to Marc with. What was Eric doing Saturday night at whatever "Bloddhound" was (some kind of club or bar)? And, God help me, did he play an instrument?

As I mulled the new information over, I worked on shipment. Sometimes it'd take me forever to find where something went, since Looney Tunes had so many tiny random grab-bag kinds of gifts, and sometimes I'd have to ask for help.

Big C was quiet but always helped me, especially when something went on a shelf I couldn't reach. He was strong and silent, but I liked his quietness. I called him the BFG in my head, after my favorite elementary school book by Roald Dahl, _BFG_, for Big Friendly Giant.

Amelia was almost the opposite of Big C since she was so tiny and talkative, but I liked her too. She'd always smile if she saw me, and she was super friendly with the customers. Chow seemed whatever, but friendly; I really hadn't hung out with him that much since he left soon after I came in. In fact, the only person I was unsure about was Quinn, because there was a part of him that just screamed DOUCHE!

And of course I liked Eric.

Shipment took the rest of my shift, but I hardly noticed. Eric had to come find me when it was nine, which of course he did when I was putting away stock in the adult section. I was holding towels that had genitalia (male or female, depending on the towel) where the actual genitalia would be on the body underneath the towel, if the towel was wrapped around someone's waist.

"Gross," Eric said, and I whipped my head around at the noise; I had specifically waited until there was no one in the adult section to put away the edible thongs and rock star blow up dolls and I thought there was no one nearby.

Of course that's when Eric appears. And of course when Eric popped up I was holding the dick towel in front of me, staring at it.

I blushed and quickly put the towel where the other ones were hanging. "Um, yeah."

He leaned against the display rack, towering above me. "Hey, so it's nine. You're good to go, although I'll have to get your availability for the schedule and stuff in my office," he said after a moment, fascinated with how red my cheeks could get.

"Okay," I mumbled, eyes on my shoes.

That dick towel was the last stock I had, so I just had to put the box away. And since the adult section was in the back corner of the store, that took about three seconds to do.

Eric was straightening up the sexual dice when I came back, and seemed like he couldn't care less about it. "Ready?" he asked, looking up as he put the last one away.

"Yeah."

He motioned for me to start, so I walked in front of him to the backroom, all the while wondering if he was checking my ass out.

When I got to the door, I meant to move aside to give him more room to unlock it. But instead, Eric leaned his left arm on the wall on my left side, by my head, and opened the door with the key in his right hand. It was almost like he was hugging me or trapping me in a hug.

At school, I could always tell when guys had crushes on girls because if they would put their hand on the locker right by the girl's head, and kind of lean towards them. Was this like the grown-up, record store version of that?

Eric opened the door easily, like it was no big deal for him to be that close to me. He pushed the door open with his right hand and made an "after you" motion with his hand. So I went inside and he followed behind me. He went into the office as I stamped my time card, and I was glad for the few seconds of alone time before he came back into this cramped closet, holding a piece of paper on a clipboard.

Eric asked me what days and hours were good for me, and then wrote it down on the paper. "How about tomorrow and Friday until 9, and then Saturday from 10 to 5?" he asked, pencil ready.

He showed me the schedule, which was just a spreadsheet with people's names and hours typed in. Mine was handwritten, but that made sense because my first day was in the middle of the week.

"Sure. Hey, wait, doesn't the store close at 10?" I asked.

I had first looked at Eric's row to see if he'd be working the same shifts as I was—he was, for every day, but with more hours—and his night shifts ended at 10. I wondered if he scheduled our shifts like that on purpose. Probably, because he was my boss and I was the newbie. But then why did he schedule himself off Saturday night too, if that was the night of whatever thing he was talking about with Mark the tattoo guy?

"Well, yeah. But I thought you might want to get out early so you wouldn't be out driving late at night and you'd have more time to do homework," he admitted.

It was sweet that he was looking out for me, it really was. But I wanted to be treated like the other employees.

"Eric, I appreciate the effort you're making, but I'm fine working until 10. Bon Temps isn't that far away, and it's my senior spring semester so there's almost no homework to do. It's fine."

He raised his eyebrows. "You sure? Because I'll give you more hours then. God knows we could use the help."

I nodded. "Yeah. And I can even work tonight until closing too, if you want."

He waved me off. "Nah, I said you'd work until 9 and it'd be cruel to tell you that and then make you work another hour. It's your first day too, after all. But tomorrow, and future ones, til 10?"

"Definitely."

Eric penciled me in. "All righty, then. Glad we got that settled. I'll walk ya out."

I thought he meant walk me to the cash registers, which he did. Amelia and Quinn were there, and I said good night to them, and how it was nice to meet them. Of course they responded in kind—Amelia even leaning over the counter to give me a hug, and though for a second I swore Quinn was going to do the same he didn't, just waved—and I thought that was it. I turned around to face Eric to say good night to him, but he just jutted his chin at the doors and I was so perplexed I just started walking over there like he'd chin-ordered me to do.

Once we were out the doors Eric stopped and fumbled for his cigarettes and his lighter, finally extracting them from various pockets. I stopped, watching him. I always thought movie stars—especially male ones—looked glamorous when they dangled their cigarettes from their lips as they cupped the air around it for a light; Eric was right up there with the best of them. It was windy and he was having a little trouble lighting it, the flame going out as soon as it was started.

"Come over here," he told me, his cigarette dancing between his lips as he spoke, and I took the three steps needed to be _that_ close to him.

"Put your hands here," he said, lifting them where he wanted them, which was around the cigarette. Now that he had two hands to light it, and two hands shielding it, he got the job done before I was even close to appreciating how close we were.

I took a step back once the cigarette was lit, and he leaned his head back as he blew out the smoke, taking care that it was going above my head and not in my face.

"Thanks," he murmured, tucking his pack in his back jeans pocket.

From the side I could see the outline of the box in the profile of what I already knew was a very sexy ass, having admired it every time he bent down to fiddle with the stereo or get my paperwork or lift up a stack of CDs from the floor.

"Guess I'll be going, then," I said after he took a few more drags. I thought he'd want to talk to me about my job performance or something, but I guess he just wanted to smoke.

"See you tomorrow," he said, flicking some ash on the pavement. "No more U2 though. That was just a one-time thing."

"We'll see," I joked, smiling. He could see it under the dim light, because I could see his.

Eric just shook his head and blew more smoke out as he leaned against the lamp post. The ends of his hair fluttered in the breeze, and he just looked so, so cool in that moment

I turned on my heel and walked over to my car, all the while wondering which one was his. He knew mine now, after all, since I had to drive past the doors to exit the parking lot. He'd waved at me as I passed him.

As I waited to turn onto the road, I looked into my rearview mirror. I could just make out his tall, lanky outline turned towards me, instead of towards the parking lot as it had been seconds earlier. But then he tossed his cigarette on the ground and stomped on it, and was walking back inside as I finally made my turn.


	4. First Encounter Outside of Work

**A/N: When I sent this chapter to my heavenly beta chiisai-kitty, I likened it to an episode of Seinfeld where it's a whole lot about nothing. And when she sent me back my freshly-laundered edited version of the chapter, the first thing she wrote was "YOU LIE!" **

**So thank you to chiiai-kitty for giving me your beta perspective. And we should all thank her not only for putting up with my silliness, but for coining a new internet phrase FOCL, for "Falling Off Chair Laughing." You'll have to guess why she felt the need to invent it, because I'll never tell…**

**These characters are Charlaine Harris's. They are also awesome. **

…

**EPOV:**

Sookie's first day of work was a success for her, but a failure for me: she learned how to put away merchandise, and I learned how damn hard it was going to be working with her, looking without touching and liking without telling. It was enough to make me angry, but I couldn't be angry when she was around because she was just so cute it was like being mad at a puppy or a kitten. It wasn't her fault she was adorable—it was mine for obsessing over it.

_I'm Eric Northman. I used to just be obsessed about tracking down original Japanese pressings of my favorite albums, but apparently now I get equally excited about eighteen-year-old blondes named Sookie. It's nice to meet you. Wait, why are you walking away from me? Come back here!_

But as agonizing as it was, working with Sookie made work so much more enjoyable because she made it go by faster. Which was why I was actually looking forward to going to work after I spent the morning in a coffee shop in Shreveport talking with a pretty well-known rock-and-roll photographer who had a lot of festival and concert shots from the '60s and '70s that the company was interested in buying the rights to in order to turn them into posters we'd sell. And the meeting went really well, with the guy agreeing to talk to our lawyers, so I felt good about that; knowing that I'd be spending the next seven or so hours with Sookie just made me feel great.

In fact, it was these good feelings that made me stop at the gas station and treat myself to a celebratory new pack of cigarettes (and then tell the people at work the meeting ran long and there was a lot of traffic). I had only smoked after breakfast, and the meeting was so important and long that there was no way I could have excused myself for a smoke, so I was itching to light up. So I bought my cigarettes and immediately went outside to smoke, although I made sure I was a safe distance away from the gas pumps—after all, I'm not an idiot and besides that, I've seen _Zoolander. _

And wouldn't you know it? Halfway through my first cig I see a bright yellow Datsun pull up next to the pump and I just _knew_ it was little Sookie Stackhouse—and it was. _And the forecast is that there's a 98% chance my day just got even better_.

She didn't see me until after she swiped her card and put the nozzle in the hole and was at the point of the whole gas-filling routine where you look around the parking lot, and that's when she saw me. I didn't walk over to her or nothing—remember, _Zoolander!_—but I waved hello and she waved back. It was too far away to talk or even yell and we both knew it, so instead we just took turns looking at each other.

But when she was finally done, she got in her car, and I was a little crushed because I thought she'd come over and talk to me, if only because it was the polite thing to do. And she ended up one-upping my expectation of her (as always) and drove her car over and parked it right next to mine before getting out and smiling at me.

"Hey you!" she greeted me, walking over to the curb where I was finishing my smoke. I could see now that her reddish shirt I had seen twenty feet away was now actually a maroon dress that hit mid-thigh, and she had paired it with a golden cardigan and the same boots she'd worn the first day she walked into my life.

"Hey girl," I replied, grinning.

"Fancy seeing you here! I thought you'd be at work," she said in the name of conversation. Of course, the only thing I got out of that was that she'd been thinking about me.

I told her what I'd been doing, and she seemed genuinely interested. I even offered to look the photographer up to show her his shots of rock legends (like Hendrix, Joplin, and Morrison) once we were both back at Looney, to which Sookie excitedly agreed.

"And so yeah, that was all I've done today. What about you?" I asked once I finished.

She might think I was asking how her day was—and don't get me wrong, I definitely was interested in what she had to say—but I was really just fishing for information. What did her _boyfriend_ say or what did her best friend do: anyone who knew Sookie I wanted to know.

"Believe me, Eric, I wish I had your day. I had an algebra test and a pop quiz in English on the _Scarlett Letter_ and an oral presentation on Japanese-American internment camps in WWII. I had a Nutella sandwich for lunch and that was probably the most exciting thing that happened today. Except for now, of course."

She blushed when she said her last sentence, and I liked her so much more for it because I knew without a doubt that if I'd said that I'd immediately feel embarrassed afterwards too. She probably didn't even mean to say it, which was why she was all flustered now, and it made me glad because I had felt like that for all of our interactions yesterday. Her ruddy cheeks gave me hope that my little fascination wasn't entirely one-sided.

"Yeah, well, there's a lot of time left in my day too, you know. Maybe something will happen later that will be the highlight of my day," I replied back. I had meant it to be comforting, to try and make her stop feeling so embarrassed, but it ended up sounding very flirtatious and only made her blush more. If she wasn't so cute and awkward staring at the concrete she'd have seen my cheeks were a little rosy too.

"So you got here a little early since your shift starts at three," I said after a moment, flicking my cigarette away. It was true, what I'd said, but I hadn't realized it until I started searching for something to say to fill in the awkward silence.

Sookie finally looked up at me and smiled, a little slowly. "Yeah, I left right from school and traffic wasn't that bad. I was gonna buy a snack and relax for a bit."

"Cool. I'd imagine you'd need to, after a day like yours," I replied.

"Um, so I'm sure you just bought your cigarettes here, but do you need anything? Foodwise? I mean, I don't know if you have to be at work right now, but since I know you're closing today that means this technically isn't your break and we're both here, you know, we could hang out for a bit or something …" she said, trailing off at the end as her uncertainty grew.

"No, yeah, I'd love to," I earnestly told her, suddenly glad I never said where my meeting with the photographer had taken place.

Never mind that I'd just spend three hours in a coffee shop. Never mind that I'd already had three cups of coffee and a raspberry scone today. Never mind that there was so much to do at work, which was where I was supposed to be. I was going to eat food on a gas station curb with Sookie, and that was that.

"Really?" she asked, all surprised. There was no reason for her to be though. I would have followed her into the "feminine hygiene" aisle of the local drugstore.

I shrugged. "Sure. Why not?"

After a moment, she kind of dipped her head and started walking towards the door, and after a gesture as cute as that I couldn't help but follow her into the store.

Under the bright fluorescent light, the packaged chips and cookies and candy looked new and exciting when Sookie was touching their wrapper or talking about them. I'd barely registered the row of drinks when I'd come in not five minutes earlier to buy my cigs, but with Sookie I learned there were about fifteen different varieties of Arizona Iced Tea, and all of them were under $2.

I ended up picking a mango iced tea and a pack of Nutter Butters, and Sookie chose a green tea and cinnamon sugar pita chips. And after some deliberation and hem-hawing, I bought a Twix bar that I got Sookie to agree to split with me.

The whole time I was thinking that we were totally picking munchies snacks right now, but I didn't mention it to Sookie since Amelia had told me last night that Sookie didn't smoke or drink much—though she made sure to emphasize that it wasn't because she was against it, she was against doing it with people from her school.

_Was she against doing it with people from work?_ Jesus, I hoped there'd be a time in the near future when I knew the answer to that.

"I should have told you this the moment I saw you, but I really like your shirt," Sookie said, standing next to me as I paid for my not-munchies.

"Thanks," I said. I really liked my shirt too—sure, it was just a plain white t-shirt, but it said "The only boss I listen to" in black ink right above a drawing of Bruce Springsteen's face. An old fling from college, some sort of art major with a dinosaur tattoo on her hip, had made it for me, and I ended up liking the shirt a hell of a lot more than I liked her. A red/yellow/black flannel and black boots completed my look—as did my favorite olive green beanie.

Dev, the owner of the gas station, wiggled his eyebrows at me in a playful manner once Sookie looked away. I gave him a stern face and he shrugged and told me my total.

Once out of the store, we ate our treats on the curb outside the gas station. I would have asked Sookie to my car, but it was covered in trash and spilled drinks and stuff you don't want in your car at the same time a girl is. When I told her that, she just laughed and said her brother had to use her car today and hadn't cleaned it. So we both ate outside and had a lot of fun for the three minutes it took for us to finish our snack.

"So you're a senior, right? Do you know what you're doing after high school?" I asked after taking a bite out of a Nutter Butter.

She held up a finger for me to wait until she swallowed, and then eventually replied, "It's still kind of in the air. I got in to a local community college that I'll probably go to if I don't get a big scholarship at Tulane. Wherever I go, I want to study education so I can be an elementary school teacher."

Community college and Tulane were two totally different university settings for Sookie, and I wondered why she had chosen from both sides of the spectrum. But now wasn't the time to ask.

Instead, I said, "College, huh? That's awesome. Your parents must be so proud."

She smiled sadly. "I like to imagine they are, but they died when I was seven in a freak accident flash flood."

"I'm sad for you," I told her, not knowing what else to say. "And I know I've never met your parents or the rest of your family or, really, you, but I'm sure they would be proud of you. I mean, hey, you get good grades, you have an awesome job, you have friends at the record store and I'm assuming at high school. I don't even know you that well and I can tell you're a good kid."

I was nervous and _holy shit_ did it show. I learned I didn't really know how to talk to someone who didn't have parents about momentous life events that parents are expected to be at. And I also learned I didn't really know how to talk to Sookie at times, or so it would seem.

Thankfully, she didn't get all melodramatic like my peppy speech would have caused her to be. She just smiled at me and replied, "Awh, thanks, Eric. That's kind of you to say those nice things. But what about you? Why don't you tell me about your future goals so I can tell you you're a good kid too."

How did it end up that she was making me feel better about consoling her?

I handed Sookie her portion of our Twix bar and answered, "Well, I really want to open a bar with my friend Pam, but there's still a little bit of saving we have to do before we can even start to think about it. Pam works in New Orleans in the PR department of Looney, so we always said she'd be in charge of finances and publicity whereas I'd be more in charge of drinks and entertainment."

"Wow, a bar, that's cool," she said, sounding really enthusiastic. She took a bite of her candy and smiled at me, not knowing she had a little chocolate smudged on the corner of her mouth.

"Oh, you have a bit of chocolate right here," I told her, pointing to the corner of my mouth. She looked a little surprised and embarrassed and wiped at a place right by it, but it didn't come off. "No, a little more to the left." She tried again, and I finally took pity on her and reached over to smudge it off with my thumb. I just barely brushed her lips and her cheeks reddened in reaction, but she didn't say anything.

"There, all better," I said. I wondered if she felt how badly my thumb was shaking when I touched her skin. Hopefully not.

"Thanks," she mumbled, looking at the ground.

The feeling of the conversation became a little awkward, and to cover it up I blurted, "Yeah, I think so. I mean, I already work at this bar, Bloodhound, as a house musician and also manage the lights or sound board if I'm not playing at a show. So I've picked up a few tricks of the trade. But the kind of bar I want would be a little more of a dive bar … with, like, peanut shells on the floor and a menu that only serves alcohol and appetizers, with absolutely no fruity drinks whatsoever. It'd be one of the best places to go to for new and local music in New Orleans, which is where we want to have it."

"So maybe we'll both end up following our dreams in New Orleans, then," Sookie replied, finally looking up at me and smiling a tiny smile.

I hadn't put two and two together when she said she wanted to go to Tulane. "Yeah, hopefully."

"Eric, can I ask you a question?" she said after a moment.

"You just did, but okay."

She barked out a laugh and then gave me a serious look. "What's your tattoo of, on your arm? I've only seen fragments of it."

"Oh, really?" I asked, pulling up my sleeve; Sookie was sitting on the side that the tattoo was on anyway. And yeah, I flexed a little. "It's nothing—just a tattoo I got in college. It's of the Vitruvian man playing guitar Pete Townshend windmill style … but he's not naked. I don't have a naked man tattooed on my arm, or anywhere on my body for that matter."

She snorted. "Thanks for clarifying."

I chuckled and then added, "Yeah, I got it because I thought it'd look cool and that's when I had a record deal and the windmill was like my signature move at shows. And it seemed like the kind of tattoo you'd see on a rock guitarist so I got it. I don't regret it or anything, though. It's just not one of those meaningful cool tattoos that has a story behind it."

"Well, I still think it's cool," she said kindly. She pointed at it but didn't touch.

To have something to do, I looked at my phone, and then looked back at Sookie. "Hey, we should be heading back to Looney soon, it's almost time for your shift to start."

"Oh. Okay. Yeah, sure."

We both got up and I held out my hand to take her trash. She thanked me as she gave me her wrappers, and once I turned around to walk to my car I saw she was already in hers. She waved at me and then turned the car on, and I did the same.

But she didn't pull out right away, so I thought she was waiting for me to make the first move. Sure enough, once I backed out and was waiting to turn on the street I looked in my rearview mirror and saw her yellow Datsun behind my tired black Toyota.

When I parked my car in the Looney Tunes parking lot she was just pulling into a space a little farther away from the door. There wasn't enough time or cigarettes for me to smoke, so I just waited for her by my car until she walked to me. We went in the store together.

It was a move that didn't go unnoticed by Amelia, who was practically exercising her eyebrows with all the waggling she was doing in my direction.

"Helllllllloooo, you two," she said, smiling at us behind the registers. Chow, who was doing a used buy next to her, greeted us as well, but with a lot less suspicion in his tone.

"Sup, guys," I said, walking past them. Since I had my key ring with me, we didn't need to go get the back room key from the shelf by the register, so I just walked in front of the counter with Sookie trailing behind me.

"Hi there, Amelia and Chow!" Sookie greeted cheerfully, like the perfect Southern belle that she was. She was wearing her megawatt grin and even waved at them. _Okay, so she won the "best greeting" award._

Once we started walking to the back room I said, "So I was thinking that today's gonna be another me-and-you day. I need to do inventory on all of the guy's work and write a proposal to the higher-beings at headquarters, so I'll be doing that on the computer up front. And you, Sookie, will be in charge of the cash registers, which I'll teach you today."

"You want me to do the cash registers? Already?" she asked, seeming surprised.

"Yeah, I think you're up for it," I said encouragingly, looking down at her (and also down her dress, but thankfully she didn't see that).

After a quick moment I gulped and switched my gaze to right ahead of me and added, "And I'll be right there in case you have any problems or questions or, in the more likely case, if you have any stupid customers creating problems with their questions."

By this time we were at the back room, and Sookie slowed down to let me pass her to open the door. After an awkward fumbling with my key ring, I finally got the door open and squeezed into the tiny room, holding the door out for Sookie.

While she put her purse on the shelf next to Amelia's I took both of our time cards and tagged us in. Whereas my scrawl was so messy and jumbled it was only my employee ID number that allowed the people in pay roll to know whose card it was, Sookie's name was printed so clearly and perfectly it was like a font. And Sookie _would_ have impeccable penmanship, because she was the kind of girl who was good at everything.

**SPOV:**

I wasn't too good at learning how to ring up the cash register, although it should be noted I was incredibly nervous. As always, Eric was kind and funny and very helpful, but I paid more attention to that and the way he smelled and how close he was to me than what buttons I was supposed to press and stuff.

My first customer was a sweet old lady buying a Justin Bieber shirt for her granddaughter who called me "honey" when I held out her bag for her to take. The second one was easy too—a middle-aged man buying a Rush album who said, "Thanks, sugar," when I handed him his receipt.

As soon as he walked away, Eric joked, "It says 'Sookie' on your nametag, right?"

I laughed. The computer he was sitting at was right next to the cash register he had set me up on, so he had heard the conversations I'd had with my first two customers.

"Yeah, although I guess those people wanted to make up their own names for me," I replied.

We shared a smile and then we both went back to work: Eric doing whatever he was doing on the computer and me bagging and tagging used CDs and DVDs when I wasn't ringing up customers.

And then, about two hours later right when I was starting to feel comfortable behind the register, I had a terrifying experience.

"Wasn't that CD supposed to be $9.99? It rang up as $16.99. Do something about it," the soccer mom that I was helping ordered.

She even tapped a manicured (and really long and pointy) fingernail on the cash register's screen to prove her point. Alarmed, I looked down in my hands and saw that while the CD had a sticker saying that it was $16.99, it also had a larger, highlighter-yellow colored circle sticker announcing that it was in fact $7 cheaper. She was bitchy, but she was also right.

_Shit—I knew Eric said something about a price override button earlier, was that what it was called? Where is that? Shit, shit, shit! _

I hovered over the cash register, my index finger lifted and ready to tap a button that I couldn't find. Wanting to figure this out on my own, I resisted the temptation to shoot a pleading glance at Eric and frantically continued to search for some sort of button to help me out – even the bright red "That Was Easy" Staples button would have been welcome.

All of a sudden a hand swooped in and rapidly pressed some buttons to have the screen read "9.99" in its small green type. I turned and saw Eric on my right. He leaned over, took the woman's money from her outstretched hand, gave her the change and receipt, and bade her goodbye – all in like, five seconds.

During the interaction Eric was so close to me he accidentally elbowed my boob when getting the woman's change, as if I didn't already feel embarrassed that Eric had to do all of that for me. He didn't acknowledge it, so I didn't either. Maybe he thought I had a particularly fleshy arm? Although that thought wasn't exactly comforting.

Once she left he patted me on the shoulder twice and moved to walk away.

I cleared my throat. "Thanks for helping me out, but I didn't get to see what buttons you pressed. Could you do it again, just so I know for future reference?" _Or so that I don't humiliate myself in your beautiful presence once again?_

Eric turned around and walked back over to me. "Sure thing, Sookie," he said, stopping as soon as he was as close to me as he had been when working the register—but not close enough to elbow me in the boob again.

"So you see that button with 'price override on it?' The one next to the 'enter' button? Press that, and then once that screen shows up on the register just enter in the price of what it should be and then press 'enter.' Got it?"

"Yeah, I think so. Hold on," I replied, and reached out and got a hackey sack out of the box of them on the counter. I scanned it and then did the price override thing to make it $2.99 instead of $4.99, and then pressed the 'void' button to cancel the transaction.

All the while Eric looked on, and when I put the hackey sack back where it belonged he said, "You got it," and walked away.

"I don't think that woman was going to call me a nice name like the other ones," I said conversationally.

Eric looked over at me. "Oh, come on, Sookie. It's your first time on the register. Don't beat yourself up."

I shrugged and put a price tag sticker on the DVD I had finished wrapping up. I wasn't fishing for compliments, it was true. I hated that I didn't do something right, because I was used to always doing everything right and on time and like I was supposed to.

"And besides, I think all of the other customers called you enough nice names to make up for it," he said with a laugh.

Eric was right. I don't know if it's because I was so young or because I was a girl or maybe just because I was a young girl, but it seemed like every other customer, no matter the age or the gender, took to calling me a little pet name—sugar, darling, miss, ma'am, love, babe, pumpkin, cutie, babe, dear, sweetie, sweetie pie.

And since Eric was standing right next to me the whole time, he heard everything from everyone. Even Amelia and Chow started teasing me about it, because it would happen multiple times during their short trips to behind the counter.

It got to the point where Eric started a list of names people would call me, and he would discreetly add a new one every time he heard it. He was just writing the list on a piece of computer paper that he'd titled "Sookie's Pet Names" in big black Sharpie letters on the top, and the list was just written in whatever writing instrument was closest. Amelia and Chow even contributed once or twice, sniggering the whole time.

"So, sugar pie honey bunch, wanna go on break now?" Eric teased once it was 6:30.

Stifling a giggle, I rolled my eyes at him before answering, "Sure, that's fine."

As I walked to the drawer to get the key, Eric started singing the song he'd taken my nickname from, the Four Tops' "I Can't Help Myself (Sugar Pie Honey Bunch)," in a ridiculously high falsetto.

"Sugar pie, honey bunch, you know that I love you. I can't help myself, I love you and nobody else," he sang unabashedly, even going so far as to snap his fingers to the beat and put his hand over his heart in an overly dramatic fashion.

Amelia, who had been coming up to replace me on the cash register, had to double over she was laughing so hard. But when Eric started in the second verse, she came in as his backup singer.

"In and out my life (in and out my life), you come and you go (you come and you go), leaving just your picture behind, and I kissed it a thousand times."

For the grand finale, they both blew me a kiss during the line about kissing my picture a thousand times, and they were both so goofy I had to stop walking just to laugh. They were giggling too, excited by their foolishness.

I thought to myself, _I can't believe I get to work here with these awesome people. _

That thought and the happy feeling it brought with it was strengthened when I came back with my purse and Eric and Amelia were duetting on "Ain't No Mountain High Enough."

"We're having a Motown moment," Amelia explained once they finished the chorus.

"I heard it through the grapevine," I said, putting the key back in the drawer. Amelia giddily clapped at my reference and damn near cackled.

"Let's get it on," Eric joked, and when I started walking to the door he started singing "Dancing in the Street."

Shaking my head, I waved goodbye and walked outside.

I ended up going to the pizza place again, but I bought a salad this time. It was only my second day of work but it was also my second dinner here; if I kept it up the only thing getting thinner would be my wallet. But I promised myself today was different because I had stayed late at school to tutor Arlene, a junior who cared more about boys than her grades, in French and couldn't pack a dinner for myself.

Since I had some time left in my break once I got to the Looney Tunes parking lot, I reviewed what I'd learned about Eric today. He was so goofy at times, and then so serious too. But my God, he was kind and funny and sweet and just … too much of everything good for someone who was supposed to be my boss. He was elusive, that boy—a puzzle made of flesh and bones and green beanies and surfer-dude blond hair and concert tees.

Eric had a record deal, at one point in his life? And that's the only thing he says about it? He was all, _oh yeah, that one time I had a record deal, _like it was nothing to get excited about. And he didn't even tell me what kind of music he had played, so I could only guess from the genres I knew he liked (but I felt certain I could exclude Motown from the list even though now I knew just how much of a fan he was). Everything about that tiny piece of information he'd disclosed intrigued me.

The whole "Bloodhound" thing intrigued me too, because I had heard him talk about that yesterday with Mark the delivery guy. I didn't know where Bloodhound was, but I knew Eric would be there on Saturday night. I wondered if he knew I'd been listening when he talked to Mark about it. Probably not—or was I just thinking that to make myself feel better about how he didn't invite me to the show? True, I was underage and it was a bar, but Eric wasn't a real stickler for the law when it came to pot and speed limits and God knows what else. And even if I did get invited—which I probably won't—I didn't have a fake ID so I couldn't even get through the door to investigate what Bloodhound was like.

It dawned on me that Eric was cool because he wasn't cool. At first glance, he seemed like the cool chain-smoking, guitar-playing, tattoo-having musician—but he enjoyed spontaneously breaking into song and dancing for no reason whenever he wasn't playing air-harp or air-xylophone.

When I came back to the store, Eric started singing as soon as I walked through the doors. Just like yesterday, dinner time was always pretty quiet in the store, and since he'd finished everything he needed to do about the posters he was just sitting on the back table behind the registers.

The song he chose to serenade me with was "My Girl" by the Temptations. You know: "I've got sunshine on a cloudy day. When it's cold outside, I've got the month of May."

He hesitated before going into the chorus, but it only lasted a second before he hopped off the table and spread his arms out wide as he belted out, "Well, I guess you'll say, what can make me feel this way? My girl."

Unfortunately, Amelia wasn't around this time to sing backup, but Chow was nearby. Eric obviously thought Chow was going to come in on the chorus, so he didn't sing the backup part Chow was supposed to. He held out his hands when Chow was supposed to sing, but when he didn't, his face became almost comically surprised.

"Chow! You're my backup, man, now you gotta sing!" he hissed, throwing him a look over his shoulder.

Chow shrugged nonchalantly. "No way, dude. You're on your own."

"Whatever. You probably have a terrible singing voice anyway," he retorted. Eric turned to me and rolled his eyes, hamming it up. I giggled, and that seemed to pep up Eric who started singing both his parts and the backup singer's parts (using that same falsetto as before).

"Well, I guess you'll say what can make me feel this way? My girl. (My girl, my girl) Talkin' 'bout my girl. (My girl)."

At this point, I was cracking up while simultaneously secretly loving and analyzing his song choice. Did it mean more because Amelia wasn't around?

When he finished he took a bow, and I clapped for him.

"Stop! In the name of love," I said to him in a sing-songy way. I even held out my hand in the universal "stop" gesture.

"All right, all right," he conceded, grinning as he swatted my hand away. "How was your break?"

"Considering no one serenaded me, it was just okay," I joked.

"Well, Sookie, I can't be your personal minstrel all the time, you know," he said scornfully, crossing his arms in mock anger.

I blew air out of my lips, like it was a big disappointment. "Darn it."

He smiled and leaned against the table, crossing his arms across his chest. Now I could see how tight and see-through his Bruce shirt was. Which was, a whole lot, luckily for me. I was surprised to see there were some muscles in his wiry frame. But boy oh boy, I wasn't complaining.

Oblivious to my ogling, he said, "And on that note, I'm going to go on break once you come back from signing in. Merch came in when you were gone, so I'm going to have you help Chow with putting everything away. All right?"

"All right," I said, walking to the back room since I'd gotten the key from the drawer.

When I came back, Amelia was behind the counter and Eric was nowhere to be seen—I guess he went on break. He didn't need to say bye to me, but I felt a little saddened that I hadn't seen him before he left. While taking DVDs off the cart, I happened to look out the window and saw him smoking a cigarette where he had smoked one last night with me—his smoking spot, then.

At that moment he turned around and looked in the store, which meant he looked and saw me staring at him. He held up his hand in greeting, and I did the same—without even thinking about the stack of DVDs I had been holding in my hand. They all went tumbling down to the ground, and I looked at the floor and then back up at Eric to see if he had seen it. Which he did, judging by the way his face was all scrunched up from laughing. I sheepishly ducked down to pick up the DVDs.

At least my face had the decency to wait until Eric couldn't see me to turn the color of a tomato.

But Amelia saw it when she came to help me clean up.

"Hey, what's with the blush?" she asked.

"Oh, uh, it's nothing," I replied, trying to keep my voice from getting high-pitched like it always did when I lied.

Amelia lifted her head up, presumably to find Eric looking in from the outside. She crouched back down and gave me a knowing look.

"Really? Because _nothing_ is smoking a cigarette and peering through the doors, and while the former is nothing new, the latter is. Let me tell you, _nothing_ treats his cigarette breaks like a vacation to a faraway country and generally avoids even turning towards the building. But now _nothing_ is positioned by the doorway looking right where you were just standing. Suspicious, huh?"

I blushed. How the heck was I supposed to reply to that?

"Thanks, Amelia, for your help," I said, taking the DVDs she was holding and walking over to the DVD section of the store. I didn't look back, either at her by the registers or _nothing_ where he was supposedly standing by the door.

Luckily for me (and the store, I guess), Amelia was ringing up a customer when I came back to get more DVDs, so I didn't have to deal with her questions. I hadn't known Amelia for that long, but I had the feeling she wasn't just going to let the thing with Eric go.

"So … Looney Tunes kind of has a strict policy with inter-company dating," Amelia told me the next time I came behind the counter and there weren't any customers around.

"Oh yeah?" I said, keeping my head down as I sorted through the cart. _Why was she telling me this?_

"Yeah. See, you can date, but you have to fill out a ton of paperwork with all these agreements that you won't spend more than some number of hours per week working together, and that if you break up the person who's worked for the company for the least amount of time has to leave—either leave the company or leave the store and work for the company at a different store."

"Oh. That sounds … drastic," I managed to say, still not looking at her.

Encouraged by my feeble response, Amelia continued, "And if the relationship is between management and non-key holders—or, say, assistant managers and part-time workers—then the manager can't be in charge of scheduling their hours and someone else has to do it. And there's a lot of inquiry to make sure there isn't any favoritism and shit like that. The manager has to give reports to the management people, and the management people come to the store periodically and investigate."

"But, that's only if the actual dating is reported," she said after a moment. Amelia even winked dramatically at me, so it looked like she was preparing for an eye exam rather than winking at me.

"What do you mean, Amelia?" By this time, I had forgotten all about the DVD cart. I crossed my arms and turned to face Amelia head on.

"I _mean_, that's only if you and Eric get together and someone reports it. I wouldn't, for example, since I like you and I like Eric, even though he has a ton of dirt on me. And I think Big C and Chow wouldn't care, and I'm sure once Stan meets you he wouldn't care either. Quinn's the only one that I'd be iffy about, but he's pretty clueless about everything so he probably wouldn't notice. And management thinks Eric's, like, this golden boy who can do no wrong, so they'd probably cut you guys a lot of slack if you end up together."

"Amelia, it's only my second day working here. I really don't know anything about Eric, and he doesn't know me that well either. And besides, he kind of has to ask me out for us to be dating, and he hasn't done that and I sure as heck ain't gonna ask him out."

"Why not?" She sounded so innocent, but her facial expression was anything but.

"Why not? I've only spent, like, eight hours with Eric. Ever. We're nothing. We're like, NOTHING in capital letters and everything's all bolded and italicized and underlined and everything else you can possibly do to a word to emphasize its meaning and make people understand what it's there for," I said, very defensively.

Amelia shrugged. "Look, I'm just saying that if something were to happen between you, I don't think there would be that much opposition. And you and Eric are both really hot and blonde, but not in a way that makes people wonder if you're related, and I think you have good chemistry. Like, you have a connection with him—I can feel it."

"Listen, Amelia, it's nice that you're thinking of me in the long term—"

"Believe me, I'm not the only one who thinks that here," she interrupted using her most knowing tone.

"Amelia! Please. I'm flattered you think Eric is interested me or is going to be interested in me or whatever, because that's a huge compliment. But there's no need to tell me about inter-company dating because I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be doing any of that when the rules are so strict it makes other people do work they wouldn't have to do. But thank you for looking out for me," I said, using my six inch voice.

I was terrified I'd offended Amelia and pushed away the only other girl here—the only other person besides Eric I was close to—but she just shrugged, smiled, and winked at me, in that order.

"Surrrree. Whatever you say," she said in an annoying I-know-something-you-don't-know tone.

I took my pile of DVDs and practically ran over to the other side of the store to put the DVDs away peacefully without being teased or interrogated.

And when I came back to the counter to get more DVDs, the only thing Amelia said to me was how much she loved Alexi Murdoch, who she was playing right now. But when Eric came back from his shift, which he had done while I was putting the DVDs away, she looked deep in conversation with him.

"So, yeah, that's what happened when you were on break. And I'm off tomorrow, but I'll see you on Saturday. You too, Sookie," Amelia finished by the time I reached them.

"Yep. Bye, Amelia," Eric said. Then he turned and walked away to ring up a customer, leaving me and Amelia by ourselves.

I narrowed my eyes at her. But Amelia just smiled, looking as innocent as someone with eight ear piercings, a nose ring, and a tattoo of a pentagram on her right bicep (fully exposed in the black tank top she'd worn today with green cargos and wooden clogs) can look.

"See you Saturday," I said, waving goodbye.

I took my time getting more DVDs, waiting until the customer was gone. When Eric finally gave the bag of purchases to him, I straightened up and asked, "So, since you always ask how my break was, how was yours?"

"Well, it started off with a big laugh," he said slyly, turning around to face me.

"Oh, did it now?" I asked, raising an eyebrow curiously as I smiled.

"Yeah, it did. This girl dropped a whole pile of DVDs and looked so surprised, like she didn't know it was possible to drop DVDs," he said. "But to answer your question, it was fine. Too short, like always. But the salad I bought from the coffee shop earlier was pretty good—it even had cranberries in it and stuff."

"Fancy smanchy."

He scratched the back of his neck and readjusted his beanie. "Yeah, that's how it tasted too."

I rolled my eyes at him, which made his grin even wider. A middle-aged man came up with a couple CDs and magazines, and Eric nodded at me to take it, instead of him.

"Hi! How are you?" I said after I put my DVDs on the back counter and approached the registers.

"Awesome, doll. And how are you?" he said, very conversationally.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Eric heading over to the computer, where he had left the list with all the names people had called me. I smiled when I saw him writing something on it—"doll," the newest addition.

In the short amount of time I'd spent ringing up customers, I quickly realized that most of them don't actually ask me how I am after I ask them the same question. So I always secretly liked the ones who were polite and asked me that, like this one.

As soon as I looked down to scan his stuff, I took back my secret liking of this customer.

On the counter he had placed two magazines. One was a copy of _Playboy _with some nameless, but certainly not boobless, trashy reality television star. The other was a copy of _Seventeen_ with Dakota Fanning on the cover, looking exactly like how a seventeen-year-old such as herself looks.

I had to work extra hard to remain impassive as I scanned his frightening purchases. Who buys _Playboy _and _Seventeen_—and is a middle-aged man? Something wasn't right here.

Oh my god, was I allowed to sell him copies of porn and teenybopper magazines? Wasn't there some sort of law against that? I looked at Eric, but he was just pointedly staring at the ceiling, a smirk playing at his lips.

Since Eric didn't step in, I continued ringing the guy up. The rest of his purchases weren't bad, since they were just some random CDs, mostly used: ELO, Huey Lewis & the News, Earth Wind & Fire. But I still couldn't get over the porn and teenage magazine double purchase.

I quickly told the man his total and handed him his change and receipt. And I also slid his magazines, then his CDs, into his bag as quickly as I could.

But, evidently, not quick enough; as soon as he left the building Eric commented, "Interesting purchase, huh?"

I looked over my shoulder and saw him standing behind me, leaning against the side of the back counter I had put my DVDs on.

I walked over and stood next to him as I replied, "Yeah, especially for the first porn thing I sold."

He shook his head and chuckled. "_Porn thing_. That's so cute."

I lightly punched him in the arm as I cried out, "Hey! It was awkward for me. But at least the first porn _purchase_ I rang up was the worst possible scenario, so it can only go up from there, right?"

"I'm sure _he_ would agree it can only go up from there."

I punched him again, but I was giggling too much to make an impact. "Hey now. Watch it, mister."

He raised an eyebrow, and I blushed once I realized what he wasn't saying in reply.

Instead of going for the obvious, Eric said, "Maybe next time you should make a joke about it. Like, the next time someone buys a _Playboy _just be like, 'Oh, this is a really good issue!' Or if someone's buying a DVD of porn, just say that it's one of your favorites."

I laughed with my mouth closed, since I knew I shouldn't be laughing but there was no way I could stop. Eric looked positively pink with pride when he saw how much better I was feeling.

He shrugged innocently, even putting his hands up in the air. "What? I do that all the time."

"Really?" I asked, calling out his bluff.

One side of his mouth reluctantly tugged up after he admitted, "Well, no."

"Thought so," I said smugly.

"Eh. Either way, we've got a new addition to the list! 'Doll' was clever on his part, although it's a little creepy in hindsight," Eric replied, changing the topic.

"I think the whole list is creepy—both the people saying things that go on it and the people writing them down," I said.

"Oh, come on, Sookie. It's funny! I've never seen—or heard—anything like that in all my Looney Tunes days," Eric said, laughing a little.

"Funny for you, maybe."

Eric sobered up and asked, "Do you want me to stop?"

Did I? Yes, I thought it was weird, but … it was like a transcript of people thinking I was cute or capable of being called a pet name. And I was superficial enough that I secretly liked that all these guys were calling me pet names in front of Eric—although I could have done without the Dakota Fanning porn guy's contribution of "doll."

I shook my head. "Nah. Keep it. It seems like you're getting more out of it than I am."

Another customer walked up, but sadly the fifteen-year-old girl buying a Selena Gomez poster did not call me "sweetie" or "honey." She did, however, look at Eric a lot and smile at him when he walked behind me to do something on the computer.

"Yeah, you walk out of here you no good, not-cute-name-calling little freak. Don't come back until you have a good name to call Sookie," Eric muttered under his breath once the girl finally stopped twirling her hair and left. He looked over at me for approval, looking incredibly boyish as he did it, and I smiled at him.

Just then Chow walked by, and Eric moved away to call out, "Hey, Chow, wanna start on trash and bathrooms?"

"Yeah, sure," Chow said, and then he walked over to the back room and let himself in.

I looked over at Eric and he explained, "Usually we do it around 8:30 or so—someone replaces all the trash bags all over the store and in the bathrooms, and then makes sure there's enough soap or paper towels or toilet paper in all of the stalls."

"Oh. Okay."

"Don't worry. I won't make you do it until your second week or so," he said, briefly placing a hand on my shoulder. It was only for a second, but it was enough to make my skin burn with the additional warmth his hand was adding.

Chow walked by, staring at us, and Eric's grip tightened. He quickly removed his hand and stuffed it in his pocket, which I was impressed he could do since his jeans looked so tight. With Chow still watching, two very pretty twentysomething customers tentatively approached the counter so the blonde could buy whatever DVDs she was holding.

"Hi," the blonde said, looking directly at Eric. "How are ya?"

Even though I'd taken the last two customers, it seemed Eric would get these ones.

"Hi girls," he greeted them, walking over to the register.

"Hiiiiiiiii," they replied back in unison.

_Jesus Christ_. As curious as I was about what Eric would say next, I couldn't stomach actually hearing it. I scooped up the DVDs so fast that for a moment I thought they would topple over, and when they didn't I booked it to the DVD section.

_He's just being polite. He called you 'miss,' the first time you met, didn't he? You're different from those cute, young customers. He hired you, not them. But wait! He said there was another opening for a part-time worker like me … but there are two of them, so he won't do that, right? _

I took my time putting the DVDs away, and when I got closer to the front and saw Eric ringing up another customer I felt a little better. At least until I heard someone say, "Hey," and looked over to the calendar racks to see the two girls from before.

They were even more stunning up close, and I hated them. The blonde's hair was as curly as mine is after spending at least an hour and a half burning myself with a curling iron, and her brunette friend had pin-straight hair with virtually no static or flyaways. The blonde had heavier makeup on, with dark eyeliner, and the brunette had a deep plumb lipstick on that would be so deep on me that I would look emo and goth instead of sexy like she did.

"Can I help you?" I asked politely. _For example, is there any way I can help you look less hot to Eric?_

"What's the story with that guy?" the blonde asked, pointing to the cash registers where Eric was handing an old lady her receipt.

Jesus, even her voice was sexy.

"You mean Eric?" I asked.

"Eric," the brunette parroted.

_When I first saw Eric at the cash registers I noticed his nametag. I even saw that it had an "edited" sticker on it. These girls obviously don't give him the attention he deserves_, I thought bitterly.

"Is he seeing anyone?" the blonde asked.

"Yeah, I think he has a lady friend," I instantly said, the lie rolling off my tongue as easily as the rolling "r" that I had perfected in Spanish class today.

Their faces fell comically. "Oh, he'd have to. Whoever she is, she's a lucky girl," the blonde said.

I gritted my teeth as I smiled my professional smile at them. "Yeah. Anything else I can help you with?"

"No, not now that he has a girlfriend. Maybe the next time we come back it'll be a different story. Have a nice day," the brunette said, and they both walked out the door.

Though I couldn't see what exactly they were looking at, their heads were turned towards the front counter the whole time so it wasn't hard to guess.

After a moment I resumed my trek to the cash registers, and when I kneeled down to get DVDs off the bottom of the cart I registered that Eric's boots were coming closer to me.

"Were they giving you any trouble?" he asked, standing above me.

"Who's they?" I asked, playing dumb in order to buy me time.

"Those weird chicks. Did you hear the blonde ask me if I liked the season of _Desperate Housewives_ that she was buying? I think she was serious, too," Eric said.

He sounded so disgusted I had to stifle a grin. I knew there was nothing to worry about.

Standing up in front of him, I simply said, "Um, yeah, they asked me if you had a girlfriend."

"What did you say?" he asked, putting his hands on his hips and leaning back as he looked at me, obviously waiting for my response.

"I said I didn't know," I mumbled.

Okay, so that was a lie, but it was a tiny little white lie, right? I said that I thought he had a lady friend, so it's not like I said he definitely had one. And besides, a lady friend wasn't a _girlfriend_. I could be considered a lady friend of his. So technically yes, he did have a lady friend. That lady friend was me.

"I don't, you know," he softly said, "have a girlfriend."

I looked at him (I had been staring at the wall behind his shoulder this whole time) and saw that he didn't look as playful as he usually did. In fact, his face was a blank mask devoid of emotion—except for in his eyes, but they were so blue and piercing I didn't know what they meant.

After a moment of intense gazing he added, "Not that I want you to run into the parking lot and tell them that. But no … I'm not seeing anyone."

The mood had suddenly got very serious, and I didn't know what to do about it. So I took the easy way out and joked, "Well, at least now I know what to say to the next girl that asks!"

Instantly I wished I hadn't said that. It sounded foolish and flippant and jealous. I wished you could erase spoken words like you could with written ones. To busy myself and not look at Eric, I looked down at the DVDs I was cradling and rearranged my holding position.

"Please, there's no need for that. To customers, I always have a girlfriend, you know?" he said very conversationally, his voice very even and sure sounding—not squeaky like mine was a second ago.

I nodded my head and waited for him to break the accompanying silence, since I had no idea what the heck to say.

He did so by asking, in a very lighthearted manner that was a total 180 from the voice he'd just used, "So what about you? What am I supposed to tell all the middle-aged guys about you?"

I smiled, thankful he knew exactly what he had to say to lighten up the mood. "Oh, gosh, please tell them—tell them all—I have a boyfriend. But just so you know, I don't have one."

"Okay," he said, breaking out into a grin so infectious I couldn't help but show mine.

"Okay."

"Hey guys," Chow said, interrupting our smiling competition. He started taking the trash out of the garbage cans, oblivious at what he'd just walked into.

With a last glance at Eric, I hoisted the DVDs and walked away from the counter. As awkward as that conversation made me feel, I was thankful for it since it informed me Eric didn't have a girlfriend, just like it informed Eric I didn't have a boyfriend. _How convenient._

The night went by really quickly, and soon it was a half hour before closing. Eric called me up to the front so I could man the registers while he started counting the money. But before he did that, he fiddled with the music, finally setting on something I had never heard of.

I usually recognized about one in every four songs that were played in the store, though the ratio was worse when Chow played something (heavy metal, ugh) and better when Amelia or Eric picked (because their music preferences were similar to mine). Earlier today Eric had played some Motown hits during the "Motown moment" of earlier, but he'd also picked a lot of grungey alternative stuff too, like Dinosaur Jr. and Pavement and the Pixies.

This band? I had no idea. They sounded like Bruce Springsteen mixed with the Cure, and I wanted to know more about them.

"Who's this?" I asked Eric, who was on the other side of the register counter taking money out.

"This? It's 'Great Expectations' by the Gaslight Anthem," Eric said.

The Gaslight Anthem. I liked their name, and their sound. How had I never heard of them before?

"You like?" Eric asked after a moment. He stopped what he was doing and walked over to where the stereo was, picking up a CD and then handing it to me.

I looked at the cover. The album was called _The '59 Sound_, and the cover looked as timeless, classic rock as the music: band members, in plain tees and leather jackets, staring right at you in their black and white glory. I turned the case over and saw the album was made in 2008, not 1978 like I might have expected. It sounded like it could have been between Springsteen circa _Born to Run._

"Yeah. It reminds me a lot of our boss," I said, gesturing to Eric's shirt.

Eric beamed at me like I had won a contest. "I can't believe you said that. These guys, the Gaslight Anthem, are absolute disciples of Springsteen. And of course, these guys are from Jersey, so you know they were practically spoon-fed Bruce at birth. There's this track on here that has the same drums as 'Born to Run,' and the lyrics have all these references to Springsteen songs."

"Wow! I'll definitely have to look these guys up once I get home," I said, sounding as enthusiastic as Eric.

"Yeah, you need to!" Eric said, grinning back at me. "I'm so glad I converted you to the Gospel of Gaslight. They're one of my favorite bands, and this is one of my favorite albums of all time. Like, _all time_ all time."

"I can see why."

"Yeah. They're great," he replied, walking back to the register. I looked at the CD for a little longer before going back to bagging and tagging CDs and helping customers—two activities that were made a lot more enjoyable with the soundtrack Eric had picked out. We listened to the whole CD and I really think that helped pass the time until it was 10 o'clock and Eric could lock the doors to keep out any customers.

"What'd you think?" Eric asked once the album was over and there was silence in the big store.

Chow was off somewhere doing a last-minute check over to make sure everything was in its place, and Eric had finished counting the money and I finished cleaning up behind the counter, just for something to do. It was really unorganized, so I had just put everything in its place, only taking a moment to pause and ask Eric about the red button under the countertop (an intercom button that connected to the backroom, apparently).

"I really, really liked it. Thanks for playing that, DJ Eric," I said.

"Cool. What was your favorite song?"

I thought for a moment before answering, "I don't know the name or remember how far it was into the album, but it was the one with Tom Petty. You know, the one that's like … 'But not me, pretty baby, I still love Tom Petty songs and driving old men crazy."

I realized it after I said it that the 'driving old men crazy' part could totally be related by Eric to the Dakota Fanning porn guy.

Then I realized it could just totally be related _to _Eric.

Thankfully, Eric didn't comment on the choice in lyrics. Instead, he just closed his eyes and nodded his head, smiling as he looked back at me to say, "Yeah, that one. It's called 'Even Cowgirls Get The Blues.' I like that one a lot too."

"Is it your favorite?"

He looked at the ceiling before answering me. "Definitely in top three. I like 'Old White Lincoln' the best—it's the third one, with the chorus, 'You and your high top sneakers and your sailor tattoos and your old '55 that you drove through the roof.'"

I nodded. "Oh yeah, I remember that one. I liked it too."

Eric smiled, and then looked past me at Chow. His eyes lit up, and I just knew something funny was going to happen.

"Chow, do you know what time it is?"

Chow took his cell phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. "10:09."

Eric looked at me and rolled his eyes. Shaking his head, he taunted, "I said Chow, do you know what time it is?"

A look of absolute panic took over Chow's normally stoic face, and I thought for a moment he was having a heart attack.

"NO! Eric, come on, man! No!" he pleaded, almost begging.

"Ah, ah, ah," Eric said, shaking a finger. "I asked you for help earlier Chow, remember? I needed a backup singer, and even though you were right there you refused. So this is payback."

"Dude! You want me to sing, I'll sing! What song was it? 'My Girl,' right?"

"That's not the song I want you to sing now. This is it," Eric said. The whole time he had been hooking up his iPod to the speaker and scrolling through his song, and when he finally pressed the "play" button, an evil smile crossed his face.

I could only stare at Eric when I heard the opening riff to that awesome '90s one hit wonder "Closing Time" by … Semisonic, was it?

I was flabbergasted, but Chow was downright pained. He shot Eric a filthy look and sneered, "Fuck you, Northman," before skulking to the backroom. Eric just laughed proudly, his hands on his hips. He seemed amused by Chow's reaction, not concerned like I was.

"What was that all about?" I asked Eric once Chow was gone.

Eric turned the volume up—probably so Chow could hear it in the backroom, even with the doors shut—and raised his voice to reply, "Oh, it's nothing. Chow just hates this song, and I like to torture him by playing it at the right times—such as closing time, as it is now."

After a moment, the grin was wiped off his face and he turned the volume all the way down so he could ask, in all seriousness, "Wait. You like this song, right?"

"Yeah, of course," I said. "I like any and all one hit wonders from the '90s."

"Good," Eric said, obviously relieved.

He turned up the volume even louder than before and started playing air piano, his head banging to the beat like he was playing an actual guitar in a hair metal band.

All I could do was laugh. Then Eric picked up the pouch he had put the money in and nodded towards the back room. I walked in front of him the whole way there, and when he started singing the chorus at the top of his lungs I joined him with a humongous smile on my face.

"_I know who I want to take me home! I know who I want to take me home! I know who I want to take me home. Take me hooooooooome."_

I was sure Eric had done this before, because when we walked into the backroom the song was still very audible. Chow was ticketing his time card, and after taking his backpack and saying good night to me (while pointedly ignoring Eric) he left. While Eric went into the office to put the money in the safe in the office, I ticketed both of our time cards. By the time he came out I had grabbed my purse, and after thanking me we walked out together.

Eric went behind the counter to take his iPod and turn off the stereo and lights for the store, and then walked me outside. He locked the doors behind him and did the telltale fiddling in his jeans pocket that told me he was going to smoke.

"So are there any songs you hate that I should know about in case I ever get angry with you?" he asked, lighting his cigarette. He didn't ask me to provide extra shelter from the wind tonight, and even though there wasn't even the slightest breeze I was disappointed.

I giggled. "Eric, let's be real. When are you ever going to get angry with me?"

He laughed appreciatively, and then coughed a little because he was exhaling smoke as he was laughing. "Right, I forgot that you're sugar and spice and everything nice."

"Yes. And don't let it happen again," I said sternly.

He took a drag and offered, "Well, in the very, very rare moment that you happen to find yourself feeling anything resembling anger at me, you should know that I can't stand the All-American Rejects or Fall Out Boy or My Chemical Romance or any other emo pop-punk all-male band from the mid-2000s."

"See, now that seems way too specific to not have a reason behind it," I commented.

Eric smiled, and it looked a little sadder than I was used to. "When I had a record contract, it was with this band I played guitar for, Fangtasia, and we tried so hard to be like those guys. You know, the Von Dutch trucker hats and guyliner and spiked belts and all that poser shit."

"Wait a second," I interrupted, "Eric, are you telling me _you wore guyliner?_" I tried so hard not to, but I ended up giggling at the image.

"Yeah, yeah. Ha ha ha," he said good-naturedly, elbowing me in the ribs. "But that's the kind of music we played, because we thought that since so many bands sounded like that were getting their songs played, there'd be room for one more. I was even ready to drop out of school to tour around the country. And I would have, too, if our record label didn't rip us off as soon as the guyliner fad ended; we were only able to record a couple new songs and didn't even get to tour before they pulled the plug.

I barely heard him—I was still trying to picture Eric with guyliner. And because he was Eric, I sure he looked good with it, but I was also sure he would look a hell of a lot different than the Eric I knew.

He took a drag and blew out more smoke before asking, "What are you thinking now?"

_Oh, nothing. Just that you must have looked so hot with guyliner. And how many groupies thought the same thing that I just did?_

"What happened after you got dropped?" I asked instead.

"Nothing. We tried to make our sound be more punk-pop than pop-punk, but no one tried to sign us. We played for a couple months together and then the band broke up and I went back to my studies and like, two months later, I started working at the Looney Tunes in Miami."

He smoked for a couple seconds and continued, "When I graduated with a degree in psychology, I didn't have enough money to go to grad school so I started working fulltime at the store and then moved up the ranks until I transferred into headquarters, in New Orleans, to work on advertising campaigns. But I didn't really like that and when I heard they were building a new store in Shreveport and my friend Stan, who was then the boss of the flagship Looney in New Orleans, was going to be managing it, I jumped at the chance to be the assistant manager. And here I am."

"So why the bar, then? How does that factor in?" I asked, fascinated by the long road Eric had taken to end up outside here with me.

"Well, I like drinking, for starters," he said, laughing. "And most of our gigs were in bars, so it was cool to see so many different kinds of bars and the clientele and drinks they served. When I was in New Orleans I became friends with Pam because her office was right next to mine and she was the only girl who would go to the cafeteria and eat something other than a cup full of ice cubes—of course, I also found out she was gay, but we just started hanging out a lot and going to bars and then we just kind of came to the conclusion that we liked being in a bar much, much more than being at work, so we'd open our own bar together. That was about a year ago and we're still trying to get money for it and find investors, but it's something we're definitely working on."

His cigarette finished, Eric flicked it on the sidewalk and rubbed it out with the heel of his boot. Now that he'd stopped talking about his life, he almost seemed a little embarrassed by it. "And, so, yeah. That's why I don't like Fall Out Boy," he mumbled. "Hey, I'm done here, if you wanted to head out."

"Sure," I said. We walked to the parking lot, and I noticed he had parked next to my car after he was done with his break.

When we got to our cars, I turned around and said, "That's quite a story. Thanks for telling me."

"Yeah, sure. And everyone already knows it, because one day Pam was googling me—God knows why—and came across a video of Fangtasia playing a show. And of course the first one she found was me in heavy guyliner and a black leather vest—no shirt underneath—and red skinny jeans and Vans sneakers with a dog collar around my neck. She forwarded it to everyone in the company, which is why I'm sure the next time I work with Chow he's going to put on some Fall Out Boy to piss me off."

He did a half-smile, almost grimacing. "Well, I guess I'll be seeing you tomorrow then."

"Bye," I said dazedly, images of Eric with a dog collar necklace and a plain black vest rocking out in my head.

One thing was certain: I knew what I was googling as soon as I got home.

...

**A/N: No, I am not paid by the Gaslight Anthem to write such glowing reviews of them ... but boy do I wish it sometimes! Everything Eric says about them is how I feel about them. I want to see them in concert so bad it hurts, especially when I get their email newsletters and see that the only shows they're playing are in Europe :( Those musical little poopheads. **

**But in the meantime, I listen to their songs (especially those on _The '59 Sound_) over and over again, and I hope you will too! I'd include the youtube links, but I feel like that'd be a pain for everyone involved to have to do all that cutting/pasting/deleting spaces. But I sincerely hope you check the band out! **


	5. First Absence

**A/N: Sorry it's been a while! I really hit a breakthrough with this research I've been working on and have gotten really caught up in it. I'm still working on the next chapter of Dead To Your World, so that should be up soon. And speaking of things that should be up soon, I finished Chapter 6 of this little story and sent it to my beta (who I was a major tease to by sending her half of a chapter when she complained about this weird thing that happens with chapters, in that they kind of have to end).**

**So thank you to chiisai-kitty for your comments, both as a beta and a buddy (see that alliteration? mmhmm.)**

**These characters aren't mine; I just stream them instead of downloading them. (get it? so tricky.)**

**...**

Eric wasn't behind the counter when I walked in to work the next day—and neither was Amelia or Quinn or anyone else that I knew. This guy was small and slight, wearing hipster glasses with thick black frames that were the same color as his hair and his small gauge earrings.

He was standing in front of the computer, staring at the screen so intensely he didn't register that a person—me—was approaching the counter until I was almost behind it. But when he did, he looked up at me looking like a deer in headlights. But after a moment his shamrock-green eyes returned to their normal size and he smiled at me, showing a chipped front tooth.

"So either you're a very curious customer or you're the new girl, Sookie Stackhouse. Either way, I'm the manager, Stan Davis," he said very warmly. He pushed his glasses up with his finger and smiled at me.

I liked my boss already. "Yes, I'm Sookie. It's nice to finally meet you," I replied and stuck out my hand, which he took.

His grip was light, but I thought that might be because he was my height and probably weighed twenty pounds less than me. I could see just from standing in front of him that everything about him was small—my shoulders were broader than his looked in his red American Apparel hoodie, and my legs were definitely thicker than his, judging from his pencil-thin black jeans. My feet were probably even bigger than his, although I couldn't really inspect his grey Toms with the angle I was facing him at.

All in all, Stan looked exactly like a hipster green-eyed Elijah Wood.

"You too," he said. After letting go of my hand, he smiled again, like he had just thought of something. "Should I call you Sookie, or 'sweetie pie?' Or, I'm okay with 'munchkin' if you are."

Munchkin? _He _was the munchkin.

I laughed. "Sookie's fine. Let me guess, you found the list?"

Grinning, Stan reached over and picked it off of the counter that formed the vertical part of the sideways "L" shape the counter was in. "You got it. I hope I'll be able to write a new nickname today, seeing as everyone else already got to do it yesterday."

I blushed and shook my head. "You probably will."

Stan put the paper back on the table and took his cell phone out of his hoodie pocket. "You're like, 15 minutes early, you know," he told me after he looked at the screen.

"I hate being late," I said, a little defensively. _Since when was that a bad thing?_ Was being early not the record-store way? Eric never said anything.

He chuckled. "And I hate employees who are late. This looks like the beginning of a beautiful employment."

I smiled appreciatively at his joke, but I felt a little awkward because I didn't know what to do next. I wished my sweater had pockets, but it was one of those sweaters that was drapey and didn't have pockets; my dress, which was a dark purple that looked black unless it was paired with something black (which it was, since my sweater was that color), also didn't have pockets. So I put a hand on my hip and slouched a little against the counter.

"Well, if you're ready to work, I'm not going to stand in the way," he said after a moment, stepping back towards the computer even though he really wasn't in my way to the drawer.

I laughed the kind of laugh you do when you're not sure what to say and walked to get the key. As I walked to the back room I waved to Chow, Quinn, and Big C, but I didn't see Eric. I knew he was supposed to be working today—only because I knew he was working the same hours as me—but I still felt a little nervous. As selfish as it was, I hoped he hadn't left since Stan had come in to work today.

The only silver lining about not seeing Eric today was that I wouldn't feel weirded about spending a good hour and a half stalking him on the internet and then have to see him in person.

The first thing I did once I got home last night was go on Google. I had found his band's MySpace page (they were really good, much better than I had expected given Eric's professed hatred of their music) and old Youtube clips of the band from their small glory days. I even found the video Pam must have seen of Eric in the red skinny jeans and dog collar, and even though in the rest of the videos Eric was still dressed like a 14-year-old boy who shopped at Hot Topic, his outfits weren't as embarrassing.

And of course he looked good. No, he looked better than good. He was alluring—he never looked out into the crowd of screaming fans (mostly college-aged girls) and just played his guitar like he didn't give a fuck where he was or who was watching. He was magnetic even in dark, grainy cell phone videos. I could only imagine what he was like playing guitar in person; I was sure I'd be screaming and dancing like all those college girls were if I saw him live.

And as if I wasn't being creepy enough—I found his Facebook page. I swear I didn't mean to; it wasn't like I searched him on Facebook and sifted through thirty other Eric Northmans until I found him.

His band had a Facebook page that came up when I searched "Fangtasia" on Google, and he was listed as one of the admins. Even though the last Fangtasia post was three years ago, there were quite a few recent entries (mostly from girls) asking about them. You see, Eric wasn't the only good-looking guy in the band; everyone in there was hot. I'm sure if they'd been that old in the late '90s or a little later they'd have started a boy band to get signed. Eric was so much hotter than Justin Timberlake, and the beefy blonde drummer and the small dark-haired bassist/singer could have given the rest of *NSYNC _and _the Backstreet Boys a run for their money.

The band's photos were mostly taken at concerts, but there were a few publicity shots that had the name of the photographer on the bottom. They were funny because that's how I got my first real glimpse of Eric with guyliner, which just looked silly to me because he looked so unlike the Eric I knew now. There was even a hilarious picture of Eric in a grey plaid newspaper boy hat that made me smile and shake my head. All of the other band members (Marcus O'Reilly was the bassist and Tom Baker was the drummer, but I didn't creep on them) were tagged to the pictures, just like Eric.

So naturally I ended up making my way to his Facebook page. His wasn't as private as mine, which I was thankful for because it meant I could go through his pictures and see who had written on his wall. His profile picture was a picture of him playing guitar with his head down, and the rest of them, for the most part, were pretty much the same.

But when I got near the end of his 500-something pictures, I found the ones of him in college, in his Fangtasia phase. It seemed like he didn't wear the spiked belts and tight jeans when he wasn't on stage; in fact, in a couple of the pictures (where he and everyone else were holding red cups) he had on the same Bruce Springsteen shirt he was wearing yesterday.

A lot of his pictures were just him with a cute girl, posted by her. Some of them had comments like "Eric!" or "my favorite" or "this guy is awesome," but Eric never commented or liked any of them. You could tell these were at parties; in fact, pretty much all of Eric's pictures seemed to be taken at bars or parties.

Once I finished with that, I looked at his "info" page. He had listed almost every musician or band you could think of as his favorites, but the only book he "liked" was _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_ and the only movies he'd put down were _Gremlins _and _The Lion King_. It was kind of hipster of him.

Eric had listed his employer as Looney Tunes, since 2008. He'd graduated from the University of Miami as a psychology major in the same year.

Then I had the good thought to look at the top of the page. Eric's birthday was July 2, 1986. He was 24.

Hmm. I'd thought he was younger than that. He was six years older than me. I mean, it's not like we were dating or were gonna date or anything, but … hmm.

I didn't recognize most of the people who'd written on his wall. Most of them were just people posting links of bars they thought Eric should go to—he always "liked" or responded to those. But for the girls posting on his wall just saying hi or asking when they'd see him again or how he'd been, their posts went ignored. I kind of liked that.

Most of Eric's statuses were just him checking in at various stores with various people—a lot of them were at bars and restaurants, but one was at a leather shop and one was at a laser tag place. I didn't recognize any of the people he checked in with.

When I finally got in the back room, Eric wasn't there. Curiously, his time card showed that he'd tagged in today at 12:39 and tagged out at 2:27. That wasn't nearly enough time for a shift, and especially not for someone who worked as many hours as Eric.

The walk back to the front was torturous—was he okay? Did he go home sick? Did someone die? Did something happen?

I contemplated asking Stan where Eric was. But was that the impression I wanted to give my boss five minutes after I met him—that I was a lovesick girl, when in reality I was really just a concerned young adult?

Turns out, I didn't have to, because when I got up to the counters, where it was still just Stan, and I started mustering up the courage to ask about Eric. But then Stan just looked over at me and casually said, "Okay, good. Eric said that yesterday you worked the cash registers, so that's what you'll do today. I have to look over everything that's happened since I left, and since Eric had to go to a thing with headquarters and won't be back until later tonight I'll need someone up here with me. Okay?"

"Okay!" I said, a little too enthusiastically in my opinion, but Stan didn't seem to notice.

Nothing bad happened to Eric—from what it sounded like, the opposite happened! The bad thing instead had happened to me, since he wasn't here.

I never really noticed how large just Eric's presence was until he wasn't here.

Sure, Stan was a nice guy whenever we talked, but most of the time he was so busy looking over spreadsheets and columns of numbers and papers that he didn't joke around with me like Eric did. And when he gleefully wrote down the additions to the name list—not including repeats, there was a little lady, pumpkin pie, cutie, cutie pie, and Madame in three hours—it didn't feel the same.

Plus, Stan must have played every damn Johnny Cash record available. Eric was kind of OCD about the music he played, having CDs or playlists ready hours before they'd even get played. But with Stan, he didn't have to change a CD or playlist once the whole three hours before it was my turn to go on break. Thankfully when I came back he had changed it to Neil Young and Crosby, Stills, and Nash and sometimes Young. Now, _that _I could deal with.

I was being stupid, I knew. Of course there would be days where Eric wasn't working the same shift or even an overlapping shift. I knew that when I agreed to work here. But I'd gotten used to working with him all the time and I was selfish with it. Someday I'd have to buck up and get used to it, but I wasn't ready yet. It was my third day after all, and Eric had kind of made himself my mentor.

Or, rather, Eric had made himself my drug. He made me forget who I was and where I was, because when I had him everything was better. And I didn't want to go cold turkey.

I _finally_ got my fix when Eric came in. He was late. Unless by Stan saying "later tonight" he really meant "twenty minutes before closing." Since Stan hadn't seemed concerned with Eric's whereabouts, I didn't ask where Eric was once it got dark out and Stan asked Big C to do trash and bathrooms

And when Eric walked through the doors, he had been on the phone laughing to someone (who wasn't me), and because we'd laughed together and at each other so much in the past two days—something I didn't appreciate it until I had to work without him and realized just how much we did that—I heard his laughter before I picked my head up. _Finally_, he was here.

"Okay, I'll see you then. Take care," Eric said, finishing up his phone call as he made his way towards the front desk. He was cradling the phone on his shoulder, as he was carrying two boxes of pizza that smelled really, really good.

He acknowledged me first with a wink and a grin, but he spoke to Stan before he talked to me.

"Got the vinyl settled, finally. Guy wasn't kidding when he said he had three thousand records. I catalogued maybe five hundred before Andre came from headquarters to help me out," he told Stan, walking behind the counter and setting the pizza on the back corner.

"Hey, Sookie," he said before taking a bite of the slice of pizza he had grabbed.

I smiled, ready to say hi back, but Stan cut me off.

"Eric!" he chastened. "What are you thinking? You can't eat that here! Think of the customers!"

Eric bit into his crust—he had really managed to put away a lot of the pizza during Stan's scolding—with an obvious gusto, testing Stan. Stan's mouth twitched but other than that he just stared Eric down in a Mexican standoff.

Then Eric broke it when he carelessly shrugged and said, "I did. There are maybe three other cars in the parking lot and it's twenty minutes till closing. Want a slice? I pestered Andre to buy it on behalf of corporate."

Stan took his head sadly, only solidifying the image in my head that he was the father and Eric was his son. "Now I remember why I took a vacation."

"Suit yourself," Eric said before popping the last bit of crust in his mouth. "Hey, Sookie, want one?"

I looked at Stan, who was shaking his head, and then at Eric, who was already opening the pizza box.

Crap, now I felt like I had to choose between my parents after they got a divorce.

Smiling, Eric said, "Sookie, this is McAllister pizza. Have you ever had McAllister pizza? It's the best. Here, take a slice."

He held it out to me, and though it was so greasy light reflected off the cheese, it smelled heavenly. Though Stan was wearing the red hoodie and Eric was wearing a white v-neck, he was really the devil and Stan was the angel. They weren't tiny and standing on my shoulder, they were big (one much more than the other) and standing on either side of me and I couldn't choose who to side with.

"Well, there's no one around, Stan. And the last time I ate was a couple hours ago, so…." I said, trailing off at the end.

Eric thrust the pizza at me with a triumphant smile lighting up his face. "Atta girl."

Stan just covered his eyes with his hands as he turned back to the computer. "At least go to the backroom, would you? And bring the pizza with you and tell Big C it's back there."

"All right!" Eric said.

He picked up the boxes and started walking towards the backroom. He nodded for me to follow, so I did. Big C saw us and I pointed to the pizza, and he nodded to show he understood. When Eric and I got to the backroom, he closed his eyes and mumbled, "My keys are in my back pocket."

"Oh," I said. What was I supposed to do, fish them out? Of his butt pocket? That was on top of his butt?

He waited a moment before turning to face me. "Here, take the box," he told me, shoving them towards me. Startled, I put my half-eaten slice on top of the box and did what he said, watching as he took the keys out and opened the door.

I didn't say anything.

Once we were in the room, he took the boxes from me and set them on the table before taking another slice. I honestly didn't see where he was putting it all, since he was so tall and seemed to have 0.009% body fat.

It sure was easier for me to think of Eric as being younger when I saw him eating pizza like a frat boy. He was already two pieces to my half.

"You're right, this pizza's amazing. McAllister, you said? I never heard of it," I said conversationally.

"Yeah, you wouldn't. It's this little hole of the wall on the outskirts of Shreveport, which is where I was today. This guy used to be a former DJ in the '80s and had all these cool records, most of them promos or singles or rarities. Only bummer was I had to go through them all with Andre."

"Who's Andre?"

"Oh yeah, I forgot you're new here," he said, and I wondered if that was a goodf thing. "Andre is the vice-president of Looney Tunes. Sophie-Anne Leclerq is the president, FYI. She's fine, but I can't stand Andre. He barely talks to you if you're not Sophie-Anne, and he's no fun."

No wonder Eric didn't like him. From what I'd heard of him, it seemed like Andre was the anti-Eric.

I finished my pizza, but that just made me thirsty. I noticed the water cooler in the corner, but I couldn't see any cups. When I asked Eric if there were some, he pointed to the shelf behind me, where there was a stack of paper cups on the top shelf.

I turned and tried to reach them, but I couldn't, not even on my tippy-toes. After a few misses, I looked over my shoulder at Eric and asked, "You mind?"

"Not at all," he replied, putting his slice down on the pizza box. I took a couple steps to the right and watched the sliver of skin exposed by his t-shirt riding up as he reached for the cups.

"Thanks. And sorry," I said when he handed me a cup.

"Sorry? Don't be sorry. It's not your fault you're tiny and have little baby T-Rex arms," he joked.

"Baby T-Rex arms, huh?" I asked, laughing. I filled up my cup with water and walked back to where I was originally standing.

He smiled, one side of his mouth reaching higher than the other. "Yeah. But very nice ones."

As we smiled at each other, the door opened and Big C walked in. Our eye contact broke as we both turned to look at him.

"Eric, Stan wants to see you," Big C said, walking over to the pizza.

"Oh, okay," Eric said. He looked at me for a second before walking out the door.

Now it was just me and Big C—which made me nervous. We'd never really talked or hung out one-on-one, and Big C was usually quiet. But I couldn't leave because then I'd be doing that just so I wouldn't have to be in the same room as him, and that was so rude I dismissed the thought from my brain the second after it came up.

"What's your favorite kind of cookie?" Big C asked in between bites.

I'd been studying my hands, but I lifted my head and looked at Big C. "My favorite kind of cookie?" I repeated dumbly. Hey, props to him for initiating conversation, even if it was in a very strange way.

"Yeah. I told my girlfriend, Thalia, about you because you're the new girl, and she always makes cookies for us on Saturdays and she told me to ask you what your favorite kind is because you're working tomorrow and she wanted to make them for you," he explained, a little sheepishly.

I was touched. "Big C! That's so kind of her, and you. I love peanut butter cookies—but wait, are we allowed to have those behind the counter? What if a customer has an allergy?"

He chuckled. "Nah, we leave the cookies back here, so it's fine. Her peanut butter cookies are so good. I'll be sure to tell her."

"I can't wait to meet her. She sounds very sweet," I said.

A big smile came over his face. "Yeah, I love her. We've been together for four years now, and lived together for three. I've been thinking of proposing."

"Really? That's great! Now I really can't wait to meet her!"

The time clock went off, as it did every hour on the hour. Ten o'clock—the store was officially closed. And about a couple seconds later, Stan opened the door and came in.

"Hey guys," he said, "I'm just going to stay late and have Eric go over everything with me, so you two can leave if you want."

Big C nodded and moved towards the time clock, but I stayed where I was. "Are you sure?" I asked, even though at this point Clancy had already clocked out and was walking out the door.

"Yes, but thank you for asking," Stan said, very pointedly. "And Sookie, while you're here, I just wanted to tell you that you did really well today. I know it's only your third day, but I was very impressed. Eric did a good job of teaching you, and I could tell you picked up a lot."

I grinned at his praise. "Thanks, Stan." _Eric also did a good job of getting me to crush on him, but you don't need to know that_.

"All right. Now, get out of here! Go home!" he joked, pointing at the door.

Obediently, I quickly put my time card in and got my purse. But it wasn't because my boss told me to go home—if Big C had already left, that meant it was just Eric up front.

I was right. He was hunched over the front desk, writing something on a piece of paper. As I approached, I could see it was a schedule of some sort; knowing Eric, he was probably creating the work schedule for next week.

He heard my footsteps and looked up, granting me a big smile. "Hey, I was just thinking about you."

My heart almost leaped into my throat. "You were?"

"Yeah. What's your availability for next week?"

I tried hard not to make a face as my heart slunk back to my chest. "Same as always. Any day is fine."

"That's what I thought. Figured it wouldn't hurt to ask, though. When's your April vacation week? Are you doing anything for that?"

"Nope. I can work any time during that week, which is the week of April 12."

"So does that mean you're free all day the 17th—Saturday?"

That was more than two weeks from now, but I was sure, with my nonexistent social life, I would be free all day and all night. So I nodded my head.

"Great. Do you know what day that is? It's okay if you don't."

I didn't.

"Well, it's called Record Store Day. And it's kind of a big deal if you work at a record store, like we do. A lot of bands put out these exclusive singles and stuff. Like, this year the Rolling Stones are putting out a previously unreleased track from their _Exile on Main St_ sessions, and Bruce Springsteen's gonna have this live recording of his new song, "Wrecking Ball," on vinyl. A lot of other great people are releasing cool things too. I'm working on getting bands to play here—so far I've got three local groups that usually play at the bar with me. I'm so excited for this."

I could really tell. When Eric got really pumped about something, I'd found that he tended to talk really quickly and animatedly, often talking with his hands too. He was doing all of those while explaining Record Store Day to me.

"How have I not heard of this? It sounds awesome!" I exclaimed.

"It is. It's my favorite day to work, and I wanted to make sure you'd be available for it."

I bit my lip trying to hide my smile.

His eyes traveled slowly to my mouth and then straight back to my eyes again. When I made eye contact, his eyes were blue and neutral and controlled. "So, now that's settled, I'll have your schedule for next week by tomorrow. And I'll see you then, Sookie."

I was a little disappointed he was dismissing me so quickly, but I still left after saying goodbye.

...

**EPOV**

"I like her," Stan said when he approached the counter. You could kind of see Sookie walking towards her car in the parking lot, which is why I was still looking out the doors.

"Yeah. She's a great employee and once we find another part-timer we'll have a full roster, which is great," I replied smoothly, changing the topic. I pushed the stack of daily sales towards Stan, a clear sign I was ready to work.

It kind of freaked me out that now two people have already come up to me talking about how great Sookie was while giving me all these knowing looks. Was I that obvious?

Stan took the papers from me and raised his eyebrow. "I heard you hired her when she bought stuff at the store, not after she filled an application."

"Are you questioning my judgment? You just said how great she was," I said, trying my best not to get riled up.

_I bet fucking Quinn tattled on me. _

"I'm questioning your motives, Eric. If anything happened or is going to happen between you and her, I don't want to know about it. Theoretically I'd be happy for both of you, but realistically it's a lot of paperwork for me to fill out."

"Nothing's going to happen. Don't worry about it. She's six years younger than me—a high schooler, for fuck's sake. We're just friends."

"You seem like closer friends than, say, her and Big C or you and Big C."

_Yeah, well, that's because Big C doesn't fucking talk_, I thought. But I said, "Well, you know, I had to train her while all the other guys were working. I'm the one she knows best just because she's spent the most time with me."

Stan walked over to where I was standing and put a hand on my shoulder. "And theoretically, if anything happens, please don't treat her like you do all of your other one-night stands. She's a good girl who's much too young to handle that," he told me, managing to sound a mixture of equal parts condescending and sympathetic.

I almost retorted that the reason I hired her was so that she wouldn't be a one-night stand of mine that I never saw again, but I held it in. I knew Stan meant well, and he was just trying to help because he was my best friend in Looney Tunes.

"Look, Stan, I appreciate it, but there's no need for this conversation. Nothing is going to happen."

My hand was itching to rub my tattoo, a nervous habit more annoying than the itch it was right now, but I knew that'd be a sign that Stan would see and I didn't want to give him that.

"All right, man. Let's go over these papers then."

...

**A/N: A couple of you sent me wonderful reviews and PMs saying you went and listened to the Gaslight Anthem, which made me feel really, really good about myself! It's nice to know people are paying attention. I didn't have any musical shout-outs for this chapter, but I have something better (I think): I just started a blog about my thoughts on music, so if you like what I'm doing here I hope you'll like what I'm doing there. The link's in my profile, but I'll put it here to make it easier. Give it a look and if you want to send me your thoughts that'd be more than okay with me!**

**http:/ musicislifenotanindustry . wordpress . com/**


	6. First Text

**A/N: I don't say this as much as I should, but thank you for reading, for reviewing, for favoriting or alerting. This is one of my favorite stories of mine to work on and it's also one of my beta's favorite stories of mine to read (and edit, both of which she does so well and thank you for that chiisai-kitty!).**

**Characters belong to Charlaine Harris. It's better that way. **

**...**

**SPOV**

Two week later, I was much more adjusted to working without Eric, since I'd spent four out of nine shifts without him since that Friday night where I first met Stan. It wasn't easy, but I was forced to accept it.

The fact that Eric didn't even tell me he was going to be at that Bloodhound bar on Saturday night, let alone invite me, certainly helped.

Of course, that didn't stop me from making an effort on my appearance whenever I knew I'd be working with Eric either. Sometimes he'd notice and compliment my boots (he really liked these brown knee-high ones I had), but other times Amelia would say she liked my hair or makeup or clothes and I'd see Eric pick his head up and look over from the other side of the counter.

Yes, I'd admit it: I liked the days I worked with Eric better. So what? I still had a lot of fun with the employees when Eric wasn't there.

Amelia was always up for girl talk. In fact, she was always up for any kind of talk. Lord, sometimes I thought that girl spoke just to hear the sound of her voice. Apparently, the last party Eric had thrown (something he was known for) Amelia had hooked up with Eric's Pam (after months of what she called "flirting foreplay"), and though they'd seen each other since then and fooled around, Amelia still lamented that they were only in a long-distance hook up. I had no idea why she'd think I was the person to talk to about this, since I didn't even do short-distance hook ups or any hook ups at all, but I tried my best to give advice from columns I'd read in teen girl magazines about boys and just switched the genders.

Amelia also loved talking about fashion and makeup, both of which she usually complimented on me, and she'd been trying to get me to come to her place so she could give me a makeover, but we never had the same time off. It was easy for me to talk to her, which was surprising since I didn't really have that many girl friends, and I always liked working with her too.

Chow, Big C, and Charles and Barry (the last two were the other part-timers—Barry worked as a bellhop at a hotel in Shreveport and Charles was a Starbucks barista) were a little harder. I mean, it was obvious that they weren't naturally chatty, but they always talked to me if I stated conversation and sometimes even when I didn't. But most of the time they talked about their favorite metal bands so I couldn't really get into that.

Quinn always meant well, but sometimes he'd say things that were so weird and awkward I'd cringe (like the time he told me I'd look good bald or when he told a customer the movie she was buying was a waste of her money). Amelia liked to say he was only good in small doses, and I had to agree with her on that one. Most of the time it worked because he'd usually work the floor and I'd always be up front at the cash register, since Eric and Stan thought I had the best customer service because I was a people person.

Eric and Amelia also had good customer service, probably because they were both just so nice and friendly and funny, so whenever I worked it was guaranteed it'd be with one of them. I liked that a lot. Stan also spent some time at the cash registers too whenever he was in the store, but on the rare occasions that'd happen he'd be in the back room taking care of stuff. Eric said that was because headquarters was really checking up on us since the store was so new and it was the biggest Looney Tunes store they had. That meant there was a lot of inventory we carried that other stores didn't because we were treated as the store equivalent of a guinea pig when it came to products.

I thought Looney Tunes, at times, was a little cliquey. I mean, Chow and Big C and Barry were a group because they had so much in common, and Quinn liked a lot of the same stuff they did so he was part of it too. And then there was me, Amelia, Eric, and Stan, whenever he was around; everyone in our group was, I had to admit, more stereotypically beautiful than the others. It was almost like we were the popular group and the other group was the nerdier one. But this time I was glad I was in the "popular" group and was amazed that the people in it liked me enough to welcome me in. Eric and Stan had the most power in the store and Amelia was behind Eric on the rung, and I was just this, this high school student they liked who worked part-time. It was all very thrilling for me.

Sometimes I wondered if the reason why I liked working at Looney Tunes so much was because it was the one thing in my life besides my family and my school. I wasn't on a team or a club and I didn't have any friends I'd hang out with outside of school. Looney Tunes was my extracurricular activity and my co-workers (most of them) were my friends. I knew they probably didn't feel the same way because they were normal people with normal relationships, but I considered Eric and Amelia my best friends. They knew the most about me, out of everyone who wasn't Gran, even though I certainly had my secrets that no one knew about. Of course, I didn't tell Amelia and Eric how I felt. That would be weird.

Still, there were days that I wanted to, just to let them know how much they meant to me. Today was one of them—I was in the middle of a 2-10 shift on a Saturday, and it was the first really nice day we'd had that felt like spring. The sky was a clear blue, it was warm out, and there was no chance of rain predicted in the forecast—my favorite kind of weather. I was a Southern girl and that meant I had a whole wardrobe of summer dresses and cute ballet flats that I hadn't been able to wear for months. My mood usually was dependent on the weather, so if it was nice enough outside that I could wear a cotton dress without a sweater like I was today, then I was a happy girl.

Plus, today I was with Amelia and Eric—Eric was on cash registers with me and Amelia was in charge of organizing the tables in front of the counter so she could always be part of the conversations Eric and I would have throughout the day. But there weren't a lot of them, because everyone was busy getting the store prepared for Record Store Day, which was in three days, on Saturday.

There wasn't much I could do, because I was so new and didn't really know how to do a lot in the store but I did my best, even if it meant having more names added to the list—this French woman had called me a "petit chou chou" and Eric almost died laughing because he knew some French and told me that the elderly woman had called me a little cabbage head, the French equivalent of the American "pumpkin" endearment. Of course, the obvious comeback to his sniggers would have been to ask him how he knew what "petit chou chou" meant, but I didn't think of that until it was too late.

Even with the names list (which I found funny or annoying, depending on who said what to me and who was there to write it down), I still loved working at Looney Tunes. I thought about it even on my days off, which I believed was something people weren't supposed to do. I also thought people weren't supposed to love their jobs and their co-workers, but that didn't stop me. At least once a shift I stopped and thought about how lucky I was to have this, to have these people, in my life.

I had people that I would want to hang out with outside of our normal social environment, and with the open-mike night Amelia mentioned she was thinking of playing, it seemed that was going to actually happen. Sure, Eric hadn't asked me to come to the bar he played at, but maybe that's because he thought I wouldn't like it since I wasn't a big drinker, or maybe because, hey, I was only in high school and he could get in trouble if he took me there.

But, Amelia had said she was going to ask Eric later if he too would be interested in seeing her play, so maybe that would be the foot in the door that I needed, in terms of seeing Eric outside of Looney Tunes. Then again, Amelia also said a lot of things. Girl liked her tall tales.

Like, today she told me she had bought this special $50 lip gloss that was scientifically proven to make your lips plumper. She'd found it at a high-end hippie nature-y all-organic store because she'd read in some celebrity magazine that all the A-listers were using it and she'd wanted to jump in on the fad. Now, Amelia had previously told me her dad was a hotshot contractor in New Orleans, so I guessed she had money to throw away on $50 tubes of lip gloss, but I still thought it was a little outrageous, even for her, and I had no problem telling her that.

"Sookie, I swear it's already made my lips bigger in the past two days. It's a miracle lip gloss!" she protested.

I didn't think her lips looked any different (shinier, definitely) but I didn't tell her that. Instead, I said, "But your lips are fine to begin with!"

"Well, yeah, but now they're going to be perfect! Here, try some," she replied, and she reached into the employee drawer to take the lip gloss out.

The tube looked surprisingly plain for $50. I'd thought it'd be covered in Swarovski crystals or 14 karat gold, but it was white plastic with the name of the brand.

"Are you saying my lips need to be bigger, Miss Amelia Jolie?" I teased.

"Come on, you know your little rosebud pout is cute. But you're a skeptic and I need to convert you, so take it. I'm going to go to the bathroom, but I'll be right back. You better have that on when I return."

I took it from her as she walked past me to go to the restroom. The lip gloss smelled spicy, like cinnamon, and when I put some on, my lips tingled. I figured that was normal and put the lip gloss back on the counter for when Amelia came back.

"'Sup," Eric said, coming back behind the counters; he'd been helping a customer find a CD while Amelia and I were talking about her crazy lip gloss.

"Ayo," I said noncommittally. It was something everyone said at the store and I was trying it on for size.

"Sookie, look at me," Eric said, and he sounded so serious I instantly turned to face him. He squinted his eyes at me and then walked closer. "Your lips are really big!"

"Haha, very funny. Did Amelia put you up to this?" I asked, turning back to the pile of CDs I had to bag and tag.

As I turned, Eric grabbed my elbow so I didn't fully move. His eyes were on my lips, but not in a romantic way—it was calculating and clinical.

"They look redder, and kinda puffy," he said.

"You know, when most boys describe my lips, those are not the adjectives they use. And they describe my lips because they like them, not because another girl told them to say something about them," I said. I had meant it to sound jokey, but when it came out it was more flirtatious.

Eric still looked really concerned and was inspecting my mouth, but he distantly asked, "Oh yeah? What adjectives do they use, then?"

_You mean, what adjectives DID they use? Because no boy has kissed, much less talked about, these lips in ages. _

"The same ones Shakespeare uses, so Eric, I suppose I should appreciate your originality, no matter how blunt it was," I said. I shook my arm free of his grip and picked up a CD cover.

Once again, Eric turned me towards him, but this time he bent down so his eyes were on level with my mouth. "I'm serious, Sookie, you need to go to the bathroom or something and look at your face."

I was going to say something about how Eric could stand to be a little more poetic with his compliments, but then my lips started to feel tingly. I was sure I was just psyching myself out and thinking that just because he said it.

But still, without saying a word, I opened the drawer that Amelia had taken her lip gloss out of and fished around for the mirror compact I had seen earlier. When I found it, I opened it and looked at my lips—which really did look huge.

I looked like I had the mouth of a big fat catfish.

"Crap! Eric, I must be having an allergic reaction to Amelia's lip gloss!" I shrieked, reaching for the culprit. Now my mouth really felt like I was on Novocain, because it was hard for me to talk and when I did it was kind of slurred. When I pressed a finger to my mouth, it felt like I had a fat lip.

"What about my lip gloss?" Amelia asked, walking over to where we were standing. I turned around to show her and she yelped, automatically bringing her hands to her face.

"We need to get her to a hospital," Eric said, like I wasn't right there freaking out in front of him.

"I'll call 9-1-1," Amelia cried, going over to the phone.

"Don't you think that sounds a little extreme? I probably just need to put some ice on it," I managed to mumble, remembering the time Jason broke his collarbone and his ambulance trip alone cost $2,000.

"I'll just drive her there," Eric said.

If it didn't hurt to talk so much, I would have said that was fine with me. Well, of course it was more than fine, but Eric and Amelia didn't need to know that.

"Let me do it! It's my fault, anyway," Amelia protested.

I looked to Eric. After a glance at me he replied, "No, I'm the assistant manager so she's under my care. Now go get her purse in the backroom, and hurry!"

Amelia actually sprinted back there, and Eric pocketed the lip gloss and turned to me. "I've got you, Sookie, do you hear me? I've got you."

I nodded, and my head felt like it weighed a million pounds. Amelia came back with my purse and I reached for it, but Eric got to it first. "Ready?" he asked, quickly walking towards the door.

I tried to keep up with him, but I just couldn't. I felt really faint and dizzy, and it must have shown because Eric came back and picked me up bridal style. At first I was scared that I would be too heavy for him and he'd drop me—and then I'd die of embarrassment rather than death by lip gloss—but he walked very quickly to the doors, which Amelia opened for us. When I shifted my weight to take some of the pressure off of him I heard him inhale very quickly, and I thought for sure he'd have to put me down because I weighed too much.

It wasn't until a couple seconds later that I realized Eric was carrying me when I was wearing a dress, and when I had moved it was in such a way that his hands were now under my dress on my upper back thigh.

He didn't move his hands. So I didn't move my legs.

Neither of us said anything to acknowledge this, even though we both knew what had happened. We were silent until Eric arrived at his car and managed to both unlock it and put me in the front seat without ever putting me down. He took my purse off and put it on the floor by my shoes, and then he bent down so he could put the seatbelt on me.

It was a little awkward and a lot intimate, him folding himself across me like that to reach over to where my hip was to fasten the seatbelt. But when he did that, my face was right by his armpit and shoulder area, and even though I knew it was weird I did it anyway: I sniffed him. He smelled so good, all citrus and man deodorant with just that tiny hint of smoke, barely there, and certainly not enough to make it unattractive—Eric cologne. I could have sat there, breathing him in all day, but there were far more pressing matters at hand—like how I had to be rushed to the hospital because I was having a serious allergic reaction. Oh yeah. _That_.

When I heard the telltale "click" of the seatbelt being fastened, Eric pulled himself out of the car and crouched down outside of it so he was eye-to-eye with me. He gazed at me for a minute before he opened the back door and, after a couple moments, gave me an unopened plastic water bottle. It was lukewarm.

"In case you feel like you need to drink something," he said once I was holding it. Then, after a final look at me, he closed the door and ran to the driver's side.

Now that I was free to look about his car, I took full advantage of it. Being in someone else's car for the first time always felt very intimate, no matter how much you knew that person. Because driving in their car was something they always did when you weren't around, and now that you were you could see what they and their hobbies were like when no one was around—clean, messy, was the music turned up high or low when they started the car or not at all?

Eric's car was clean, though it needed some repair with seat cushions and stains on the floor. It smelled a little like weed, but when I faced forward once I heard Eric open the driver's door, I saw a leaf-shaped air freshener and guessed the smell might be coming from there.

Without saying anything, Eric turned the car on and backed out of his space, wrapping his arm around the passenger seat like he was probably taught in driver's ed. Of course, when he learned to do it there was most likely a driving instructor sitting in the passenger seat and not me, Sookie Stackhouse, but he did it all the same and though he didn't touch me, I could feel him close to me. I tried very hard not to show how much this was affecting me.

I already knew how Eric drove normally, but now I got to see how he drove under alarming circumstances. He was driving so fast I thought I'd die in a car crash before my allergic reaction did me in. I wasn't surprised once I heard police sirens behind us and saw a cop car behind us trying to get Eric to pull over.

Eric looked completely unaffected, but I was freaking out. After looking in his rearview mirror at the officer approaching his car, Eric turned to me and calmly said, "Sookie, when the policeman stops by my window I want you to make sure he sees you. Can you do that for me?"

I nodded, all the while wondering if I looked bad enough that a cop would take pity on me.

When the policeman came to the window and peered in, he said, "License and regis—holy hell, what happened to her?"

That solved it. I guessed I did look bad enough.

"Sir, she had an allergic reaction to some lip gloss. I'm trying to get her to Shreveport hospital," Eric explained.

The guy gave me a searching look and then turned back to Eric. "Okay. I get it. Follow me and I'll lead you there."

"Thank you, sir," Eric said respectfully.

Once the cop walked away Eric looked over at me, giving out a big sigh of relief.

I smiled at him because I thought he was nervous about me.

Instead, he confided, "Dude, there are so many illegal drugs in my car right now. I would have been so screwed if he searched my car." He shook his head and laughed a little as he started the car.

Oh. So I guessed there was more to Eric's car than his leaf-shaped fragrant air freshener. And by extension, there was more to Eric that I didn't even know about.

As soon as the cop got back in his car, turned his lights and sirens on, and started zooming down the highway, Eric followed. I stared at all the cars that pulled over to make way for us. Now I knew why Eric wanted the cop to see me—and I was sure we were going to arrive at the hospital in half the time, at the speed Eric was going.

Eric—surprisingly—hadn't thought to put some music on, so the only sounds in the car were the wind coming in at a high speed through the window and my labored, practiced inhaling and exhaling that made me sound pregnant. They became even heavier when I tried to take a sip of water and instead drooled down my lips and chin, staining my dress. Eric didn't say anything, but I knew he saw it and that was when I heard him press down hard on the accelerator.

When the cop finally pulled up in front of the emergency room part of the hospital, Eric did the same, stopping the car at the curb. Though Eric opened his door at the same time the officer did, Eric had already ran over and got me out of the car (still carrying me bridal-style) by the time the cop was on the sidewalk.

"I'll make sure someone gets her a room quickly. Leave all the talking to me," he said, talking to Eric but looking at my lips.

Eric nodded and soon we were all standing before the front desk. The nurse behind the counter took one look at the cop and then one look at me before she turned to another nurse and said, "Louise, get 212 ready. Margie, get a wheel chair for this poor woman. Let me guess, she tried the new La Bella lip gloss that's supposed to plump up your lips?"

I nodded yes and Eric took out the tube of lip gloss and handed it to the nurse. I still couldn't believe he was carrying me, and at one point with just one hand.

The nurse took it from him and read the label. While she did that, another nurse, a big black woman, came over with a wheel chair and Eric set me down in it. The woman who had the lip gloss came out from behind the counter and pushed me down the hallway to the room I was going to be taken to. After thanking the police officer and writing on the back of his business card that he'd get a discount if he ever went to the shop, Eric caught up with us.

"Miss, did you know there was insect venom in here?" the nurse asked.

My eyes bugged. "No," I managed to get out.

"Yeah. It's the same kind of venom that gets injected to you from a wasp sting. Are you allergic to wasp stings?" she asked.

"I've only got stung once, in seventh grade. It wasn't nearly this bad," I said. It took a while, but I finally got my rubber lips to talk.

By this time she had pushed me into a little room with a bed and two chairs and a lot of machines, and she got me to stand up and then quickly lie down on the bed. While the nurse began putting a bracelet around my wrist and bringing the IV machine towards me, Eric went on the other side of the bed and dragged a chair up close to the bed, so he could hold my hand.

His hand was cold and clammy, and a little sweaty. But instead of repulsing me, it just made me feel warm because I knew he was reacting like this because he was scared, for me.

"There's no way the FDA approved this, which is why you can only find the lip gloss at certain locations for an exorbitant cost. It's on the black market of lip glosses for its literal translation of 'bee-stung lips.' Ever since these articles came out naming all these celebrities who were fans of the product, we've had five girls this week come in here with the same condition you're in," she told me.

Now she was checking my blood pressure, pulse, breathing rate, and temperature. She put her hands around my throat and told me to breathe normally.

"And what condition is this, medially speaking?" Eric asked for me once she was done.

"She's severely allergic to insect venom, and the reason why it wasn't bad the last time she got stung is because for people with a serious allergy like her, the next sting is 60% likely to be similar or worse than the previous sting. Plus, she was technically 'stung' in a sensitive and vulnerable area, which is why she looks like this."

I was looking at Eric this whole time, so I didn't even realize she'd put an IV in me until I felt the prick of the needle in my arm. Looking over, I also saw her putting down a blood pressure cuff on a table.

"Is she going to be okay?" Eric asked, stroking my wrist with his thumb. I focused on the movements to try and calm myself down.

"Miss," she said to me. I interrupted her to tell her my name, and when I was done she said, "Sookie, you will be fine. What I'm going to do is give you injections of epinephrine, which is a fancy name for adrenaline, as well as antihistamines and steroids. You don't seem to be having that much trouble breathing, but you'll be under close watch and if it gets worse we might have to put a breathing tube in your trachea, but you probably won't have to spend the night here. I'm going to go find the doctor now."

Hold the phone. Steroids? Breathing tubes stuck in my throat? Probably not spending the night in the intensive care unit of a hospital?

Eyes widened, I tuned to Eric. "How is that supposed to make me feel better?" I whispered to him. I wanted him to comfort him, to tell me everything was going to be okay, and he did.

After that, he took my purse off his shoulder—he hadn't moved it this whole time, and I would have smiled at the thought of Eric wearing my purse if I could—and put it on the bed. "Sookie, is your phone in here? Is there anyone I should call to come here?"

I thought about it. I had the car, so Gran was stuck at home. But she could have Jason drive her over, since it was after five and he was done with work. I picked up my purse and took my cell phone out of it to give to Eric. "Call my Gran," I told him.

Then the nurse came back in with a doctor and a couple more nurses, and I heard her tell Eric he needed to leave the room. He tried to say he was my brother, but she said it didn't matter if he was my husband because there couldn't be anyone in the room besides the patient now.

While she escorted him out, he turned to me and waved my phone to tell me he was going to call Gran. Exhausted, I closed my eyes and leaned back into the pillow, trying to ignore the feeling of hands and cold needles prickling my body as I imagined what it would be like to have Eric as my husband.

That was distracting enough.

...

**EPOV**

After I was so rudely escorted out of Sookie's room, I sat down in an uncomfortable chair in the hallway and looked through her phone. It would have been so easy for me to scroll through her contact list and inbox, but I didn't. The fact that it was Sookie and she was in the hospital influenced my decision, as did knowing that she had trusted me all alone with her phone.

I didn't find a "Gran" in her contact list, but maybe Sookie's grandma didn't have a cell phone. I tried "home" instead, and after a few rings, an elderly woman picked up. I assumed it was Gran.

"Hi, ma'am, my name is Eric Northman. I'm the assistant manager at Looney Tunes Records, where Sookie works?" I said.

After a moment she replied, "Yes, of course, Eric. It's so nice to speak to you after hearing so many good things about you. Is everything okay?"

_Hearing so many good things about you_? Dazedly, I replied, "Um, well, that's the thing, you see. I'm calling on Sookie's cell because I just took her to the hospital. Everything's okay, I think, but she put some lip gloss on that apparently had wasp venom in it so she had a severe allergic reaction. The doctors say she will be fine, but she wanted me to call you."

"My stars, child, is she going to be all right?"

"I think so. They're giving her, um, adrenaline and steroids and some other things. It's just that her lips got really red and puffy and swollen and she was having some trouble walking and talking, but the doctors said that was to be expected given what had happened to her," I said, barely getting out the words fast enough. After putting on such a brave face for Sookie in there, I welcomed the chance to show my real feelings to someone I couldn't see.

"I will call Sookie's brother and have him take me to the hospital. Where is she?"

"Shreveport hospital, ma'am."

"Nonsense, Eric, call me Adele. I'll expect you to when you see me in person. Call Jason's cell phone if anything happens before we can get there. We'll be there as soon as we can," she told me.

"Of course, Adele. See you soon," I said before hanging up.

Oh my God, I was going to meet Sookie's family—her beloved grandmother and her brother who was almost the same age as me. That's all I could think about as I waited to be let into Sookie's room or have her family show up, whichever came sooner.

Sookie's brother must have driven faster than I did, because he and his Gran came first. I knew who they were before they introduced themselves—Jason looked a lot like Sookie, and even a little like me, because of the whole blond hair and blue eyes thing. Of course, he weighed at least forty pounds more than I did and was just a mass of muscles, which was a little worrisome. He gave me a long look, an extended once-over, and I froze, not getting out of my seat to greet them until they were only a couple feet away from me.

"Hi, I'm Eric," I said, sticking a hand out as I introduced myself.

Adele stepped closer to me, but instead of shaking my hand she gave me a big hug as she told my shoulder, "Eric, it is so nice to meet you in person." She took a step back and looked up at me and said, "Thank you so much for everything you did for our Sookie today."

Jason came forward and he shook my hand—him giving me a hug would have been like a boa constrictor wrapping around me. "I'm Jason. And yeah, what she said."

Adele gave Jason a reproachful look before turning to me to ask how Sookie was. I explained I hadn't seen her since I called and none of the doctors had come out yet.

However, Adele and Jason must have brought luck with them, because we only had to wait a few minutes—I offered Adele my chair (and also Sookie's purse with her phone in it) and Jason and I stood on either side of her before the door opened and a nurse came out and asked if we were Sookie's family.

Jason started walking towards the door and Adele stood up, but I remained where I was. The nurse started to usher Jason in since he was close to the door, but Adele looked back at me sharply. "After what you've done for Sookie, both today and every day since you met her, you're family. Come on in."

I could see where Sookie got her manners and just all-around niceness from. Sookie's family was, technically speaking, not as whole as mine, since I had both of my parents still alive. But her family was closer, friendlier, nicer. I knew I'd rather have Adele as my primary guardian than my parents, and I'd known the woman for less than five minutes. Sookie was really lucky to have her grandmother and brother. And I was really lucky to have her and her family.

"Thank you, Adele," I said quietly and followed her into the room.

Sookie was lying on the bed where I left her (although now she was under the covers and was wearing a hospital gown, so it was almost like she was naked in front of me), but she looked much, much better than the last time I saw her. Her lips were still red and puffy, but it looked like Angelina Jolie lips, not a parody of Angelina Jolie's lips. Her lips looked so good that I was able to think of how sexy they looked rather than how scary they were.

Poor Sookie had an IV attached to her arm and she looked really tired, but she still smiled at me once she had finished greeting her grandmother and brother.

Jason was at the head of Sookie's bed, his hand on Sookie's shoulder, and Adele was sitting in the chair I had sat in and was also holding Sookie's hand. I stood unsure by the foot of the bed, my hand on the sheets of the bed.

Once the doctor saw we were all settled, she introduced herself as Dr. Ludwig and told us that she'd given Sookie injections of epinephrine, antihistamines (which she said was basically Benadryl) and steroids, and that Sookie's body had reacted to it favorably. She also said they were going to keep Sookie under observation for the next couple of hours but they didn't think she'd need to stay overnight. After asking if we had any questions, the doctor left, taking all of the nurses out with her.

Adele started fussing with Sookie, and Jason did some as well. I just listened to the chatter, barely taking it in.

What if I had been the one to try on the lip gloss—God knows why—or do something else to take me to the hospital? My family wouldn't be able to just show up to support me after a quick phone call. I hadn't seen them since Christmas, and the last time I talked to my parents was three weeks ago. I'd talked to my brother on Facebook chat yesterday, since I was much closer to him than my mother or father, but still.

My cell phone rang, and I was thankful because it gave me something to do other than be awkward. It was the store calling—probably Amelia seeing how Sookie was—and I said as much out loud.

Though she was the one hooked to an IV drip, Sookie still looked concerned and said, "The poor thing! She's probably driving herself crazy with guilt and worry. Let me talk to her."

This was the first time I'd heard Sookie say so much, and she sounded almost herself—she just lisped a little at the "s" and "t" sounds. I figured she was as capable as anyone to have a big talk with Amelia so I handed her my phone.

"Hey, Amelia, it's Sookie. See, I can talk normally now!" Sookie said as soon as the cell was to her ear.

She waited a little to reply, "Seriously, Amelia, it's not your fault. How were we supposed to know? It's the dumb company's fault."

Then her facial expression turned to a deer-in-the-headlights look as she exclaimed, "No, I'm not going to sue! That's crazy. No, you won't sue either. Well, yeah, we could write letters. Let's just think about that once I'm out of the hospital, okay?"

I smiled faintly. It was so characteristic of both of their personalities for Amelia to be freaking out and for Sookie to comfort her, even though Sookie was doing so in the hospital bed Amelia had indirectly put her in.

"No, you won't go paying my hospital bills! It's not your fault. You didn't hold the tube and smear the lip gloss on my lips. I appreciate the gesture, but I can't accept it. I won't."

After a couple seconds Sookie said her goodbye and gave me the phone. "She wants to talk to you," she told me, and I took the phone from her. Not wanting to be even more of an intruder, I went into the hallway to talk to Amelia.

"Oh my God, Eric, I am so sorry I put you through that too. It's totally all my fault," she said.

"Amelia, it's fine. Sookie's going to be fine. It was just an accident. How are things at the store?" I asked. I didn't know how long it'd been since we left, but I knew it had to be a while.

"Boring. Everyone sends their well-wishes to Sookie, obviously."

"I'll be sure to tell her that," I said, smiling.

Amelia paused for a moment before meekly asking, "Um, Eric, I was just wondering … when do you think you'll be back. Because with the two of you gone it's just me and Chow and Charles and it's kind of really, really busy."

"Say no more, Amelia. Sookie's family is here so I'll leave in a couple minutes."

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank you so much, I'm so sorry but …"

I cut her off. "Amelia, calm down. But, um, I have to ask … have you, uh, seen Pam since you've gotten that lip gloss?"

It was important for me to ask, no matter how much I wanted to think about my best friend and one of my best work friends making out. I didn't care about what they did and was happy Pam found someone who lasted more than one fling, but it was too personal thinking about it.

"No. Why?"

"Pam's very allergic to bee stings, so if she tried it or you kissed her, she'd probably end up in a hospital too."

I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of that sooner. I'll never forget the time last summer when Pam got stung at a cook-out I'd been having. Of course, she knew she was highly allergic and had her Epi-Pen with her so it wasn't as serious as Sookie's reaction.

"Oh my God! Of course I'll throw it out. Wait, where is it? Hold on. I can't find it. Shit. No, that's right, you have it. Just toss it at the hospital, okay?" Amelia said.

"Okay. See you soon," I said, and after she said goodbye I hung up and went back to the room.

Everyone's heads turned towards me, like they'd just been talking about me, but they were smiling.

"Eric, dear, Sookie was just telling us about how you followed a policeman to the hospital! That was so smart of you," Adele said kindly.

I looked at Sookie, who smiled at me. I guessed she didn't tell Adele what could have happened if he had searched my car.

"It was the least I could do," I replied.

"Naw, man, that was so badass," Jason said, nodding at me. Adele turned and reprimanded him for his language, but when she looked to me again he mouthed "badass" behind her back and gave me a thumbs-up.

I chuckled and looked back at Sookie. "I'm really glad you're going to be okay, Sookie, but I'm afraid I have to go back to the store. Amelia said they could use my help," I said apologetically.

She looked a little disappointed for a second before she brightened and said, "That's fine, Eric. I was going to ask if everything was okay since they're so under-staffed right now. I totally get it."

It was what I expected of her: a nice and sweet gesture on her part of comforting me even though I was the one hurting her. Classic Sookie.

I wasn't expecting Sookie to ask Jason and Adele to give us a moment. Adele agreed at once and went out the door, and after a long moment Jason did too, closing the door behind us.

Sookie patted the part of the bed by her, and I sat down, my butt barely on the bed for fear of sitting on top of her. My hands were folded on my lap, but that didn't stop Sookie from reaching over and taking them both in her hands. I tried really hard not to jump from the contact—she didn't touch anything, under-the-pants-wise, but the image of her hands going towards that area was a little much.

"Eric," she said, and I concentrated on how serious she sounded.

"Yes, Sookie?" I had no clue what she'd need to tell me in private.

She took a deep breath before telling me, "I just wanted to thank you for everything you did today. You were amazing. You were like a superhero—you were Super-Eric! You went above and beyond today. I knew that you would take care of me and make everything okay and you really did, and for that I am so, so grateful."

She squeezed my hands for emphasis and I broke out into a smile. "You don't have to thank me, Sookie. Of course I'd do it for you. And you, you were fantastic today. If I'm Super-Eric then you are Super-Sookie."

We shared a smile, and she let go of my hands. I guessed that was my time to get going. But before I did that, I said, "Your car is still at Looney Tunes, you know."

She looked at me like she'd totally forgotten. "Oh yeah. Um … it's on the way home, so I guess I'll have Jason drop Gran and I off and she can drive me home."

"Okay. And if you do end up doing that, please just stop in so I know you're safe, okay? Promise?" I asked her.

"I promise," she said, smiling. After a moment she added, "It'll probably help Amelia sleep better tonight if she sees I'm still alive."

I laughed along with her, but when we were both trailing off I quietly said, "And me too, you know."

Sookie looked at me, biting her lip, and though she smiled faintly when I'd said it she didn't reply.

Clearing my throat, I got off the bed and said, "Just in case you don't end up doing that and get your car later, or don't feel like coming in, can you text me, at least?"

"Of course. What's your number?" She sat up a little and looked around for her purse, but I didn't want her to get up.

"No, stay where you are. Why don't you give me your number and I'll text you?"

She did, and I stored it in my phone. I texted her my name, so she'd know I was the unknown number, and then put my phone in my pocket.

"Is it a bad thing if I really want to smoke in a hospital?" I asked out loud, shooting a smile towards her. I'd been strung out on my nerves ever since I first saw Sookie's lips hours ago but hadn't gone outside to smoke since then in case something happened and Sookie or her doctors needed me.

She rolled her eyes and replied, "Yes, silly! And you know how I feel about you smoking anyway."

Sookie hadn't exactly come outright and said I should stop, but she did imply she didn't approve. I liked that she cared that much, but of course I still smoked.

"Yeah. Well. I'm going to go back now, but I'll keep an eye out for you or your text later," I said.

"Sure thing."

I was at the door now, but I looked back at her one last time. "Take care, Sookie. And I know you're not scheduled to work tomorrow, but you are for Friday, so if you're still not ready don't feel bad about not coming in. It's all about you, not Looney Tunes. Okay? I don't want you to overexert yourself so creepy men can call you 'darling.'"

That brought a giggle to her lips. "Good night, Eric."

"Night."

When I walked into the hallway, Adele was sitting in the chair like earlier but Jason was nowhere to be seen. Adele stood up when she saw me and asked, "You're going?"

"Yeah, unfortunately. I have to get back to work," I said, walking over to where she was.

She thanked me profusely, seeming to find ten different ways to say how brave and great I was for what I did today. I blushed repeatedly and told her she was too kind, but that just seemed to spur her on. When there was finally a moment of silence, I hugged her goodbye, and when it was over she looked right at me and said, "I hope I'll be seeing you soon, Eric. You're such a nice boy."

"I'm sure our paths will cross again, Adele. Have a good night."

She waved goodbye and with that I walked down the long hallway and back outside. My car was still parked by the entrance, and thankfully no one had towed it.

I lit a cigarette and sat on the bench as I smoked, thinking about everything that had happened today. What would have happened if Sookie did take an ambulance to the hospital—would she have asked for me to go with her then? What would have happened if Amelia ended up driving Sookie to the hospital—would she have asked for a moment alone with her?

_What if Sookie had died today?_


	7. First Drinks

**A/N: I did plan to have this up sooner, but I got caught in the middle of Hurricane Irene. Everything and everyone is fine, and I hope that all you readers on the East Coast are okay as well! **

**Thank you to my beta chiisai-kitty. She adores this story, which makes me adore her. It's a good cycle.**

**And for those of you keeping count: I did change the rating of this story and make it M. It's for drug use and underage drinking, which occurs in this chapter and later ones. There will be E/S nookie, but that is not going to happen for such a long time it's almost not worth mentioning because I'm afraid it will make you eager and get your hopes up. It will happen, though, I promise. And when it does, that'll be the whole reason why I started this fic in the first place. But we have to wait for Sookie to mature and grow up. There will be lots of E/S _interaction _before that.**

**These characters are not mine, God help me if they were. **

**...**

**SPOV**

Record Store Day was exhausting. I didn't know if it was because I'd been at the store since eight this morning or because it was the first time I'd worked since my little lip gloss episode (I had called in sick to school for two days and to work one day, though I had texted Eric when I got out of the hospital that night and he had sent back a smiley face).

Stan had asked me if I could come in early, since the store officially opened at ten and he wanted to have everything ready for the big day. And because I felt guilty about missing work, I said yes.

It wasn't too bad, at first. There had been a pot of coffee brewing that I took a cup from and Eric had brought in doughnuts, so I had one of those too. Eric said I'd be in charge of the freebie table, so I had to organize all of the freebies we were giving away—like key chains and stickers and patches and posters—on the table. It kind of saddened me that I wouldn't be working the cash registers like Eric would be, but I consoled myself with the thought that at least this way if someone called me a nickname there wouldn't be anyone around to record it.

And once the doors opened, I realized there wouldn't be any time to record it. Looney Tunes was busier than I thought possible; people had to almost wade through the crowds to do their shopping. And it was so crowded around the makeshift stage Chow and Big C had wheeled out of storage for the bands to play on, I was scared someone would get trampled to death. Luckily no one did.

Everyone was in a good mood today because we were getting a lot of business. Every single cash register was manned by someone, which I had never seen before in my few weeks here. I had gotten rid of every last freebie by five, so Stan gave me an hour-long break (I'd had a regular half-hour one for lunch, which was cold pizza in the back room with Barry and Charles) that I gratefully used to do some homework in the office.

After that, Stan assigned me to act as the assistant to one of the bigger bands who came today, the Crawfishes. They were a kind of bluesy band that was from Shreveport, and they'd built up quite the local following. They were doing a signing thing before their show started at seven, and I had to stand behind them and make sure they had enough posters to sign and markers to sign them with.

I also had to go and get them sodas and candies that the lead singer and guitarist had rudely demanded we give them for free. I'd told Stan about their request and he came over to apologize and say that wasn't part of the deal, but the guy threatened to leave the store if he didn't get a Diet Coke and a Snickers right that moment.

I'd never felt so helpless before. This guy was being an ass, but what could I do? They were the headliners of the show, so to speak; we needed them, and they took full advantage of that.

Stan was absolutely pissed off at them; I'd never seen him so full of emotion and I hated that it was a bad one. He'd called the musician a lot of bad names under his breath when I first came to him with the guy's request, and after failing to talk some sense into the guy Stan just dragged me to the front registers and told me to do it.

"Whoa, what happened?" Eric asked once we were both behind the counter. I felt ready to cry and Stan looked like he could murder someone. When he explained to Eric the situation, I saw that Eric's reaction was going to be more like Stan's anger and less like my scared confusion.

"What a douche bag," he fumed. "It's like, five bucks worth—a fucking soda and a candy bar that he can get at the gas station down the street. He's not even getting paid for this gig. Who does he think he is? I know for a fact he used to work at a mechanic shop before his band started getting up."

"Tell me about it," Stan said darkly. "We have to do it though, don't we? I can't think of any other way."

"Yeah, and I can't think of any other way to spit in his stuff other than open the bottle or tear off the wrapper. Fuck. Just give them their damn freebies, Sookie," Eric said, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. "He's giving me an anger headache, the prick."

I quickly got the band their drinks and candy bars, and they took them without so much as a thank you. When I told Eric, he just rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath as he rubbed his tattoo, which wasn't visible through the button-down jeans shirt he was wearing today with black jeans and boots.

Since this band was the last to play, Eric said I could just take Chow's spot at the register while he monitored the stage. I was so busy ringing up customers I couldn't even strike up a conversation with Amelia or Eric, who were on either side of me. It stayed like that right up until closing, which was why our sales were 48% higher than the second highest-grossing Looney Tunes store.

Don't get me wrong, I was happy for our sales, but once the doors closed I was in charge of cleaning the store and man, did that take a lot out of me. There were so many shirts that I had to refold and wrappers I had to pick up and throw out; a lot of the excitement had been sucked out of me.

Since Amelia, Eric, and Stan were in charge of the finances and Quinn, Chow, and Big C were in charge of dismantling the stage and putting it back in storage, it just left me to pick up around the store. The guys on the stage finished before I did and left, but I stayed to clean up. Once I was sure everything looked as it did when I came in this morning, I decided I could ask if I could go home.

"So, Sookie, you ready?" Amelia asked once I walked behind the counter. Stan and Eric were both on the other side, but they looked up from counting money to see what my response would be.

"Ready for what?" I asked.

"The bar," Amelia answered, really slowly.

I made a face at her like I still didn't know what she was talking about, and that was the trigger she needed.

"Oh, right! I'm sorry, I thought you were part of the Facebook message," she apologized.

"I'm not friends with any of you guys on Facebook," I said. _But that hasn't stopped me from Facebook stalking one of you._

"Hey yeah, you're right," Eric said from where he was. "Go on the computer and fix that right now."

At Amelia's urging—and cries from the peanut gallery that was Eric and Stan—I walked over to the computer and signed on to Facebook. I friended all of them, and then turned to Amelia to say, "Now what? I still don't know what you're talking about for later tonight."

I was pleased at how nonchalant I sounded because inwardly, I was psyched I'd be listed as Eric Northman's friend on Facebook.

"We're all going to go to this bar for a drink afterwards," Amelia explained. "Come with us. It'll be fun."

"But I'm not twenty-one. I don't even have a fake," I protested.

"You look twenty-one, though," she said.

"Yeah, I thought you were that old when I first met you," Eric added. Surprised, we both turned to look at him, and he just shrugged and went back to work. Stan got up to bring the money to the backroom, and Eric quickly followed.

"Anyway, you look older than you are, and you're showing enough of your tits that if it's a guy you won't have any problems," Amelia continued once they left.

I looked down my cleavage. It was just a blue v-neck shirt I'd paired with my jeans and I didn't think it looked that slutty. I mean, I had walked out of the door with this on and Gran saw me, so if she didn't say anything it couldn't be that bad.

"Come on, I know you're thinking about it now. Just do it," Amelia whined.

"Do you really think I'll be able to get in?" I whispered, looking around to make sure the guys weren't around to see how worried I was about this.

Amelia winked. "Totally. I know you're not in college yet and don't have that much experience with boys or bars, but if you're hot you can get guys to do pretty much anything for you. And you, my dear, are smoking."

I appreciated her comment, but I appreciated her effort to try and make me go out with them. I wanted to go out with them, I did, but I was scared to because I was so much younger and it would be my first time going to a bar. It sounded so grownup, saying I was going to a bar. And saying I was going to a bar with Eric sounded even more grownup.

"Okay. I'll go. But I have to call my Gran and tell her not to wait up for me," I said after a moment. I was going more for the company than the drink; this would be my first time hanging out with these guys outside of work, for the most part, and I was sure it was not something I should miss.

Amelia pumped the air with her fists, and walked away so I could call Gran. Just like I'd thought, Gran was so excited about me going out with my friends that she didn't even ask where we were going that would make me stay out so late. If she had asked, I honestly would have told her we were going to a bar. But instead, she just thanked me for telling her and told me she couldn't wait to hear all about it tomorrow morning.

When I hung up, I could see the backroom door closing and then I saw the top of Eric's head over the CD racks (Stan was probably walking with him too, but he was so little he couldn't be seen). Both of them finally emerged, and I could see that Eric was carrying my purse and my jeans jacket. Stan went to unplug the pinball machine and Amelia had already left to turn off the various lights and TVs around the store.

I stepped out from behind the counter to meet Eric and he handed my stuff to me and said he'd already tagged me out. It was something he started doing after he took me to the hospital—something we had never really talked about—and it tickled my heart every time he did it.

After I thanked him, he casually asked, "So, are you coming with us?" as he put on his jacket.

"Yeah, I guess I am now," I said, trying to match his nonchalant tone.

He grinned at me, showing teeth. He looked so different when he smiled close-lipped and when he went for a goofy, all-out grin; I liked the latter better. "Good."

I thought so too. "Are we going to Bloodhound?" I asked for lack of anything else to say.

Eric shook his head, his long strands of hair shaking. "Nah, we'll go there some other time. Tonight's a McFlattery's night," he said, sounding so mature and experienced.

Before I could ask what the heck that meant, Stan and Amelia were coming towards us. "Good to go?" Stan asked, shrugging on his leather jacket.

"Yep. She's coming, and I'm driving," Eric said, tilting his head towards me.

We all walked outside together towards Eric's car; Stan usually rode his bike and Amelia's car was in even worse shape than mine. Amelia and Stan both went right for the backseat, leaving me to take shotgun and ride in the front with Eric.

As surprised as I was, I didn't protest. In fact, I even cracked a joke about it. "It's nice being in your car and not driving towards the hospital," I said. Everyone laughed, and I looked out the window to hide my grin.

"It's nice having you under these circumstances," Eric replied, throwing a grin my way.

Now that he had pulled onto the road, he turned the radio on and Tom Petty's "American Girl" came on.

"Great opener," Stan commented from the back seat, and everyone agreed. Once Tom Petty started singing, everyone joined in, including me. Eric was practically yelling the words, he was singing so loudly. I wondered if he'd do some air-guitar while driving, but thankfully he didn't.

The bar wasn't that far away; it was a fifteen minute drive, or four songs on the Tom Petty Sirius XM station Eric had on. The parking lot was half full, but not crowded enough that it took Eric forever to park, and once we were inside (no doorman out front) the bar looked busier than I'd expected. It wasn't too fancy, with wooden floors and a lot of Ireland-themed paintings and posters on the wall. In fact, it looked really low-key—maybe that was what Eric meant when he said it was a McFlattery's kind of night.

Amelia led us to a booth, and it ended up that she and Stan sat on one side while Eric and I sat on another. There were menus on the table, but no one started looking through theirs so I didn't either.

Amelia asked for a Long Island Iced Tea, and when the waitress asked to see some ID I knew I was in trouble. But I was the only one who seemed to care, since Eric had taken out his phone and was texting someone, and almost immediately after he did that Stan had his phone out too. Once Amelia put her license back in her wallet, it was my turn and I just asked for a Coke. Eric took a break from texting to ask the waitress what was on tap, and after she went through all of the beers he eventually ordered a Blue Moon, and Stan ordered water and a rum and Coke; neither of them were carded.

I wondered if I could have gotten away with ordering a drink, but if she had asked for ID then I would have been humiliated in front of them—it would have been the biggest reminder that I was so much younger than all of them.

Once the waitress left, Amelia turned to Stan and bumped his shoulder with hers. "I see what you did there."

Stan put up his hands like he was defending himself. "Don't look at me—it was all Eric."

She gave Eric an appraising glance, and Eric just shrugged. "What?" I asked, not getting it.

Amelia and Stan looked at Eric so he was the one to tell me, "Stan's straightedge. He doesn't drink or do drugs."

"Then why'd you order a rum and Coke?" I asked Stan, confused.

"It's for you, Sookie," he explained. "Eric told me to get it so we could switch the glasses and you'd be able to drink."

Ah, so that was what the sudden texting was about with those two. I got it now. I'd never had a rum and Coke before, but it was with Coke so it was probably a good drink for a beginner like me, which was why Eric thought of it for me—that, and it'd be easy to fool the waitress with.

"Thanks, Eric. That was really sweet of you," I said, fidgeting in my seat so I was facing him when I smiled at him.

"Sure," he said, reciprocating the smile. "If there's anything else you want to try, just tell Stan and he'll order it."

"I can't believe my boss is going to have to order my drinks for me," I said, giggling and looking at Stan. I thought of how anal he'd been about the pizza Eric had brought in the first night I met Stan and was surprised he was going along with this.

Stan laughed good-naturedly with everyone else. "Sookie, if it's after ten and we're not at Looney Tunes, I'm not your boss. I don't care if you drink. I drank a ton in high school and college and only recently stopped when I met my girlfriend, Isabelle, who's also straightedge."

"Well, thanks, Stan," I said.

He waved it off and started looking through his menu. "I'm starving. Anyone want to get something to eat?"

"Their nachos are awesome here," Eric offered.

Amelia nodded. "And their fries, oh my God, their fries. Every time I had to deal with a crazy-ass customer today I reminded myself I'd get McFlattery's fries tonight."

"So that's nachos and fries for the table. Anything else? Sookie, see anything you'd want?" Eric asked.

"No, that should be fine," I said. The menu had standard appetizers, but those were the two I'd be most interested in getting anyway.

When the waitress came back with our drinks, Eric placed the food order and, as soon as she left, switched my glass with Stan's with a secret wink.

"Cheers," Stan said, holding up his alcohol-free Coke, and we all clinked our drinks.

When I took a sip of the rum and Coke, I was surprised by how sharp and harsh it tasted. The Coke taste definitely took a backseat to the rum, which was really strong.

"Is that okay?" Eric murmured, elbowing me once I put the drink down.

"Yeah, it was fine. Thanks again." I didn't want to hurt his feelings by telling him I wasn't the biggest fan of his drink, and though he looked like he wanted to say more to me he didn't.

Amelia started talking about how she needed a drink after today, and that sparked conversation about the day's events. It didn't stop until the food came, but then everyone was so busy eating the delicious food. I could tell why Amelia had been dreaming of the fries all day; they were so perfect I just wanted the French fry taste in my mouth unmarred with ketchup or anything.

Once we got over the food, talk started up again, this time about last year's Record Store Day. I didn't have anything to add, so I just listened to Stan and Eric talking about what they had to do at corporate, since they were both working in the office at that time, and Amelia when she described what it was like at the Jacksonville location.

Everyone's drinks were running low at this point, so the conversation switched to what they'd drink next. We'd spent forty-five minutes at the pub, so it was 11 o'clock now, and everyone said they'd be up for one more drink before it was time to go.

"Do you want another rum and Coke or do you want to try something else?" Amelia asked me.

I looked at Eric, who was taking a sip of his beer, and then back to Amelia again. "Um, I could try something else. What do you recommend?"

"Hmm … maybe a vodka cranberry?" she suggested.

"Is that vodka and cranberry juice?" I self-consciously asked, and she nodded yes.

"Come on, Amelia, I think Sookie can handle a drink that isn't so girly. I think she'd like a Tom Collins," Eric said, taking the last fry.

Stan nodded in agreement, and even Amelia made a conceding shoulder shrug.

"What's that?" I asked Eric.

"A Tom Collins is two parts gin, one part freshly squeezed lemon juice, sugar, and soda water, usually garnished with a maraschino cherry or an orange slice. It tastes like a gin and lemonade, or a gin and sprite. If that doesn't work for you, there's also a gin and ginger ale, which goes down better than a gin and tonic," Eric said.

I had the sudden image of him working as a bartender. If he ever got around to opening his own bar, I was sure he'd be good at it.

"Okay," I said.

"I'll order the vodka cranberry, just in case. You can have a little taste test, Sookie!" Amelia exclaimed, and I nodded.

After a moment, Eric thoughtfully asked, "Do you want to try my beer?"

I wrinkled my nose. "I've had beer before, at parties, and I wasn't such a big fan of it. But that was the cheapest beer they could find, so that's probably why it tasted so bad."

"Here, try this then," Eric said, holding his glass out to me. It had an orange slice resting on top of the glass, so it couldn't be too bad then, right? Plus, it was Eric's beer, and even if it sucked, it was still Eric's.

I accepted the glass from him and gingerly took a sip.

"What do you think?" he asked once I swallowed.

"I like it better than the rum and Coke, but I think I'd like to try the Tom Collins," I answered. "Sorry."

"More for me then," Eric smirked, finishing off his beer.

"What do you want, Stan?" I asked, since technically I'd be ordering for him.

"Another Coke would be fine, thanks."

Right on cue, the waitress came over and everyone ordered their appropriate drinks, with Eric going for another Blue Moon.

"This was nice. Thank you guys for inviting me," I said once she left.

"Yeah. And sorry for not inviting you sooner. We weren't sure if you'd want to come," Amelia answered. "But now that we know you do, we'll definitely have to do this again."

Stan nodded, and Eric said, "I was thinking of having a house party soon—maybe when things aren't so busy."

"Yeah, it's been a while since you had one. I think the last party of yours that I went to was when I still drank," Stan remarked.

Eric ran a hand through his hair and laughed. "Man, was it that long ago? Because that was what, pre-Christmukkuh?"

Stan nodded. "Yeah, you fucker. So this one better be epic to make up for the lost time."

"I'll see what I can do," Eric said, smiling. It was still on his face when he looked over at me and said, "Sookie, would you want to come to this? I know you're not a big party girl … but this would be fun. If you didn't want to try anything Stan's going to stay sober and he'll be there."

Boy, I really did want to go. But the last party I'd been at was traumatic, and I'd steered clear of them since. Maybe if I went to a party with a group of people I actually trusted, I'd be able to enjoy myself more and not be the wallflower in the corner watching everyone else have fun and doing things I was too scared to do.

"I think I'd be up for it," I said carefully after a moment. Everyone had been looking at me for an answer and I was glad I could finally give it to them. Since this was going to be Eric's party thrown at his house, of course I would go. I'd make myself, if it came to that.

They smiled, and then the waitress came with our drinks. Amelia thrust the vodka cranberry at me, and I liked it much better than the rum and Coke, but not nearly as much as the Tom Collins Stan handed me.

Eric was right—it was delicious. It didn't taste as hard as the other two. But I didn't want to say that and hurt his feelings, since he had thought to order me the rum and Coke, so I just smiled at him and he smiled back, understanding what it meant.

We spent the rest of our drinks talking about Eric's parties. I knew the last one he held was the one where Pam and Amelia first hooked up, but I didn't know they were known for levels of _Old School_ party craziness.

The three of them reminisced about their favorite party stories—like the time Stan woke up in Eric's backyard with the hose stuffed down his pants with the water still on. I laughed so hard at that story I was crying, especially because Stan seemed so reserved to me. Amelia liked Eric's Halloween party where he offered little bottles of vodka to all the tricker-treaters with parents so the moms and dads would know not to take their children there ever again—all while dressed in drag with heels and tennis-ball boobs stuffed in his mini dress and a pair of bunny ears on his head. That seemed like such an Eric thing to do, and I laughed once I made sure he hadn't actually given any alcohol to ten-year-olds (which made everyone else laugh because I was so concerned about it even though it happened months ago). He promised me he gave candy to kids who rang his doorbell unaccompanied by their parents, but they were all so freaked out by his drag appearance he didn't think they'd be coming back next year.

Apparently all the wild and crazy things always happened at Eric's parties because he made the best drinks. His shots were legendary, Amelia and Stan assured me while Eric modestly kept quiet: the oatmeal cookie shot that was equal parts Bailey's, cinnamon schnapps, butterscotch schnapps and the ubiquitous Jagermeister; the apple pie shooters of rum with apple juice in a shot glass with whipped cream and cinnamon on top (or sprayed in your mouth after you took the shot); a Minderaser, which was vodka, Kahlua, and Sprite; and a whole bunch of other ones.

Eric's parties were basically ways that Eric could try his hand at bartending to people looking to get schwasted.

Once everyone finished and the check came, Stan insisted on picking it up so he could get reimbursed by corporate. Worked for me. We all made our way back to the car, and once again I rode up front with Eric.

He had turned off the radio so he could play his "happy endings" playlist that he always played at the end of a good night. It was more of the songs everyone knew no matter their age—"Don't Stop Believing" by Journey, "The Weight" by the Band, "Wonderwall" by Oasis and "Beast of Burden" by the Rolling Stones. It was weird, but the eclectic mix really worked. The ride back to Looney Tunes seemed much shorter than the ride to the bar.

But inevitably we did pull into the empty parking lot of the store, and everyone got out of the car. Stan got his bike and said good bye before starting for home and Amelia and Eric both took out their respective packs of cigarettes and lit up.

I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do, since I didn't smoke but I didn't want to leave. I decided to lean against the back of Eric's car like Amelia and Eric were doing and listened to them plan out party details for Eric's thing.

When they both put out their cigarettes, Amelia asked, "Ready to move on?"

I was confused by her question until I saw her dig into her purse and pull out a plastic baggie with what looked like a cigarette. But I knew it wasn't a regular cigarette—it was a marijuana cigarette.

"Yeah, bring it," Eric said, watching her take the joint out. "Where's Fred?"

"He's at home," Amelia replied. She looked over at me and explained, "Fred's the name of my bowl, because it's orange with black dots and turquoise stripes."

"Ah," I replied.

I hardly knew what a bowl was for—I thought it was baked goods, bongs, or joints. But I didn't say this. I felt embarrassed by my naiveté. Amelia and Eric may not think I looked like I was in high school and they didn't treat me like I was in high school, but I felt like my constant questioning about adult things like drinking or drugs made me sound so young and I didn't want to seem like that in front of them.

"Have you smoked before, Sookie?" Eric asked, very kindly. I appreciated his tone, because there were a lot of ways to ask that question and Eric had picked the nicest one.

"No," I answered. "I've never been offered it."

"Would you like to try it tonight, with us?" he said, leaning forward so he could see me, since Amelia was standing in between us. She was looking at me too with a curious expression on her face.

I wanted to try it just to try it, and to have it with Eric. I wanted a reason to hang out with Eric and Amelia longer, to be cooler longer before the sparkling stage coach turned into a pumpkin that would come with me back to Bon Temps, where I had no friends. But I was scared of having to drive home high. I didn't want to come home to Gran after smoking pot, even if she'd be sleeping then.

"Not tonight, no. I don't want to have to drive home high, because I've never done it before and it's kind of a long drive," I admitted. "But I'd like to try it with you guys, sometime."

"That's okay," Eric said comfortingly. "There's always a next time, as far as I'm involved."

"Me too," Amelia quietly said. I had forgotten about her for a second, lost in the conversation with Eric to realize there was someone between us. I hoped she hadn't felt left out.

"Do you mind if we …" Eric said, gesturing to the joint. Amelia had taken the lighter out, and they both were looking at me.

"Oh, sure," I said automatically. "Actually, I'm going to go now. It's getting pretty late for me …"

"Yeah, sure, I understand," Eric replied.

Amelia was lighting up the joint, but she stopped to wave good bye. Eric reached over to pat my shoulder as he said good bye, and I bade them good night as I walked back to my car.

I could see the light of the joint twinkling like the stars in the sky as I drove past them on my way to the exit.

...

**EPOV**

"You don't think we're corrupting her, do you?" I asked Amelia as I passed the joint to her. We were both watching Sookie pull out of the parking lot, so I didn't have to say who the "her" was.

"She's letting us corrupt her, for starters. And she's eighteen, you know. She's old enough that she _should_ be corrupted," Amelia retorted before taking a hit.

_Really? Because I didn't already think about that every time I thought about her. Thanks, Amelia._

Instead I replied, "I guess you're right. I did so much shit in high school it's hard for me to understand why someone wouldn't."

Jesus, I was a stupid punk back then. I was the stoner skater in high school and used to make fun of the perfect goody two-shoes like Sookie (but secretly wanted them).

"That's why you're the bad boy and she's the good girl," Amelia joked.

She didn't know how right she was. I gave her the stink-eye when I accepted the joint from her, and then took a long hit so I wouldn't have to respond.

"I think something happened to her," Amelia confided to me after three puffs.

"Sookie?"

"Yeah."

"Like what?"

"She's never had a boyfriend, first off," Amelia said.

She stopped to take the joint and in the silence I thought about what she said. It still absolutely floored me a girl like Sookie didn't have guys lining down the street for her, especially judging how they reacted to her in the store with their stupid "babe" and "darling" remarks.

I kinda got the feeling Amelia wanted me to comment on that, but I didn't want to give her the satisfaction. She'd crack under the pressure—Amelia could never keep her mouth shut, though I was surprised she'd kept in her thoughts about Sookie this long.

"She's only been kissed by one guy too—Bill something-or-other—and she said it was enough to make her stop everything with boys because of it."

"What, because he slobbered all over her or something?" I scoffed. "How bad could one kiss be to make you swear off guys? Your first kiss is always awkward no matter who you're with."

Amelia shrugged. "Hell if I know. But she did say she doesn't party with the people at her school because she said they're monsters when they're drunk. And she doesn't have a lot of friends, or much of a social life. Makes you wonder."

I looked sharply at her. "Amelia, you don't think…"

She nodded slowly, confirming it. "I think something happened to her at a party, and I think this Bill guy was involved. It kind of makes sense, when you put all the pieces together."

But I didn't want to put all the pieces together—I wanted the pieces to already be whole and happy and not broken. I didn't want what I thought happened to Sookie to have actually happened to her. I couldn't stomach it.

We passed the joint back and forth a couple times before it was done. But I was so caught up in speculating about Sookie that I instinctively knew this would be a time where I wouldn't get the giggles; things were much too serious for that.

We talked a little before getting into our cars and driving back to our homes, but Amelia didn't bring up Sookie again and neither did I.

Though I was sure the topic would come up soon, especially if I did get around to having a big house party and invited Sookie. No wonder she seemed so hesitant about accepting the invitation, even though it was purely theoretical at that point. Maybe it was too much for her, the kegs and red plastic cups and stupid drunkenness. Maybe she got some kind of party PTSD and that's why she didn't go to any of them.

Or maybe I was just being paranoid and jumping to all of these insane conclusions.

But I'd gotten her to come out with us tonight to a bar. I'd gotten her to try different drinks. Most of all, I'd gotten her to agree to come to a party. That had to mean something, even if was just making a mountain out of a mole hill.

Of course, I couldn't ask Sookie about it. Fuck, I wanted to so bad, but there was no possible way I could without making things worse. I'd just have to stew in silence and pay attention to everything she said—more attention than I already was.

The first thing I did when I got home was take a beer out of the fridge. My roommate Greg was at his girlfriend's for the weekend so I had the house to myself, but I still took my beer and my laptop into my bedroom and shut the door behind me. What I was going to do seemed too private to do in the shared living space or even in a room with the door open.

While I waited for my laptop to turn on, I unbuttoned my shirt and took it off, removing my jeans with it too. I was just in my undershirt and boxers now, and I got on the bed and signed on to Facebook.

I had a few notifications and a couple pokes from girls trying to Facebook flirt, but I ignored them and went to my single friend request that I knew was from Sookie. She hadn't changed her profile picture since that time I saw her page at Looney Tunes.

The first thing I did was go to her friends list and search for a Bill. No one with that name came up. So either that kiss was bad, or it was _horrifying. _I tried looking for a Bill in Bon Temps, the same town and school Sookie apparently went to, but couldn't find anyone. That pissed me off.

Admitting defeat, I went back to doing the normal things you're supposed to do with a new Facebook friend—you know, creep on their wall, their likes, their profile pictures, their photo albums. Not look up their could-be rapists/gropers/what-have-you.

Sookie really didn't have much to look at as far as Facebook went. Her last status was three weeks ago and it was just song lyrics that I googled and found was from a Mason Jennings song: _"It was bound to happen and it happened today, life turned to us to say 'I'm about to go your way.' And it's a simple situation now that we became us. There ain't no rust on the happiness bus."_

I quickly found a video of the song on Youtube and played it, the Sookie soundtrack playing out loud as I stalked her Facebook page.

She had a little more than a hundred friends and almost half that amount of pictures; most of those were from a couple years ago, when she had braces and made kissy faces at the camera and just generally always looked like a little jail bait Lolita. The more recent ones of her were taken by her or her brother, Jason, and they were from barbeques or a trip they took to a Tulane football game; those ones were the most recent pictures, put up in January.

I was surprised that she had more books liked than bands. And the bands she listed I already knew she liked from our discussions at the store. The books were all the classics, ones you wouldn't expect an eighteen-year-old girl to read, let alone "like" on Facebook.

I went back to my mini-feed and looked at the other notifications I'd had. Nothing important; just a couple people, a mixture of my Looney Tunes friends and people from my college days in Florida, liking a link to a blog I'd found with a list of drinks named after rock stars.

There was also a notification that Amelia had posted in the "I Hate My Job" group everyone except Sookie and the other part-timers from work were in, as well as some people who also worked at Looney Tunes in other locations. It was something Amelia had started ages ago as a place where people could let off steam and post goofy shit to get a laugh. The group gave me a ton of notifications, but the things people posted were so funny I didn't even care.

Turns out Amelia had gotten the perfect shot of that dickhead from the Crawfish band picking his nose; she must have taken the picture with her cell phone and uploaded it a couple hours ago while working. As the caption she'd written, "EW no wonder this guy couldn't play guitar and his band sucked!" Stan, Quinn, and Chow had already "liked" it.

After a moment of deciding, I invited Sookie to join the group. Some of the things we posted were crass, like the screenshot I'd found of a YouTube video of ants burning with a magnifying glass and the first comment, which was liked by three hundred people, was "Tricky, but finally managed to masturbate to this." But I wanted Sookie to be part of this little fucked-up community we'd managed to make on the Internet.

I checked my email and dicked around some more on my Facebook before I turned off my laptop, finished my beer, and went to go brush my teeth. I felt sleepy, but didn't know if it was from the fourteen-hour work day I'd had today or the pot. Probably both.

As I tried to go to sleep, I found myself wondering if Sookie was replaying the events from the bar tonight in her head like I was. And then I had the thought if instead she was replaying the events from the last time she'd had alcohol, at whatever party must have changed her life so drastically.

It took a long time for me to finally fall asleep.


	8. First Party

**A/N: I'm glad that you guys keep telling me this story is like crack, because it's like crack for me to write it! But I have been working on Dead To Your World ... I guess I'm feeling more inspired by writing this? I don't know. But it makes my heart warm knowing people out there care about this as much as I do!**

**And for a shameless plug ... I've been getting PMs about music recommendations, mostly for Gaslight Anthem (which, again, makes my heart warm) but for other bands too. All I can say is keep them coming because there's nothing I like more than playing DJ, and also check out my blog (link's in my profile). I'm still in the beginning stages of it and updates will be more regular there, but until then feel free to take a look around and download the songs I put up in each post. And you, if you know of any bands or musicians you want to share with me, I would love to give them a Spotify search!**

**Thanks to my beta chiisai-kitty for reading this so quickly and efficently, as always. And also as always, these characters aren't mine!**

**...**

**EPOV**

We really sucked at getting together to drink again, because it didn't happen for two weeks and even then it was just to a bar, not to my house for a brain cell-erasing night of fun. What's worse, Sookie didn't even come—it was Pam and Amelia, and Stan and Isabelle, and just me. I felt like the third wheel, but if Sookie were here, I would have had someone to talk to while the others were kissing and flirting. Then it would have been like we were all on a big triple-date, except Sookie and I weren't dating.

I did tell Sookie to come. Unfortunately, the spontaneous bar outing happened on a Thursday night when Sookie wasn't working, and when I texted her (for the first time since the hospital incident) at ten o'clock she replied that it was too late and she was already in bed, but thanked me for thinking of her and maybe next time?

I texted back, "Definitely next time … already thinking of drinks you could try," but she didn't reply back to that for the thirty minutes that I spent worrying if that was too forward of me (not that anyone else at the table noticed, I thought).

But before she texted me back, I was a little distracted by this curvy brunette in skinny jeans and a black leather jacket. She started talking to me when I went up to the bar to get another round, and her looks made me listen. She was sexy and made it clear she thought the same of me and that, in her words, we should go do what sexy people did together, and I stood there flirting with her for so long I forgot all about bringing the pitcher back to the table, as well as the text I sent Sookie.

When Sookie did reply, it was that she was looking forward to it and that any drink I made would be great. The lateness of her response puzzled me, and since it was a school night for her maybe she was going to bed now. I didn't reply back.

It wasn't because I was distracted by Alexandra, who the hot barfly was. It was because immediately after I got Sookie's text I received another one—and before I opened it I thought for sure it was Sookie double-texting me. It wasn't.

It was from Amelia asking if I was ever going to bring the beer over, and while it was a little catty at least she had thought to text me rather than interrupt my work with Alexandra. And I realized I was glad she didn't come up, because then I would have had to introduce them and then maybe bring Alexandra back to the table since I had drove to the bar tonight and if I left with her I'd have to let the others know.

I didn't want to introduce Alexandra to the group because I didn't even like talking to her that much and I knew they wouldn't; she wouldn't fit in, with her brashness and sexual innuendo. And to be honest, she was an absolute whore—and I would have had no problem with that in the past.

But now I thought that if Sookie had come, I would have had no problem introducing her to Pam and Isabelle and we all would have had a great night, even if I didn't get laid at the end of it. I would have remembered it in a better light than my one-night stand with Alexandra, and I would have thought of it more often too. It would have meant more.

When I told Alexandra I had to go, she was shocked and pissed she spent so much time talking to someone who wasn't going to fuck her, and it was then I knew that I had made the right choice.

The people at the table were confused when I returned alone and sat down and poured myself a beer like nothing happened. Pam asked if I was Forrest Gump stupid not to go home with that girl, which made Amelia look at her quickly, and I just shrugged and asked if anyone needed a refill. When Alexandra left with some other guy Pam looked expectantly at me, but I didn't give her the satisfaction of a reaction. I didn't regret my decision to return alone to the table at all, but I felt like Pam regretted it for me.

Sookie didn't ask how the night was the next day at work, so I didn't offer. Like how she didn't ask if I had siblings that first day, I wasn't sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing.

But Sookie had a reason to forget about the texting—almost as soon as she came in through the doors with the biggest smile on her face, she told me she was accepted at Tulane on a full scholarship.

"Sookie, that's fantastic! I'm so happy for you!" I exclaimed, perking up enormously from tracking orders online.

She was there and so smiley that I had to give her a hug. I just had to. So I did. Sookie was so little—a thought that always popped into my head whenever I was standing next to her or in front of her. But what she lacked in height she made up for in smell—since I was a head taller than her I could lean over and smell her hair, all without her little pixie self having a clue how creepy I was being.

"How did it feel opening the letter?" I asked once hug time was over.

"Best feeling ever—like I just found out you could eat all the chocolate in the world and not gain a pound," she replied, clearly giddy.

Big C happened to come over at this time, and Sookie gleefully told him her exciting news too, though they didn't hug.

"Looks like you're definitely going to have your New Orleans dream come true," I admitted after a minute.

"Yeah, so you have to start working on yours!" she replied.

Big C looked between us confusedly and then asked if he could leave since his shift was over and Sookie was here to replace him on the registers. I said yes, not even looking at him.

"What's your major going to be again?" I asked Sookie once he left. I knew she had told me but I felt like an ass for not remembering.

"Education. Although I might major in English. Not sure yet," she replied.

"Well, you still have some time to figure it out," I said, promising myself I'd remember her major for next time.

Next time. _Next time._ Always next time—drinking, smoking, talking. Why not now? Sookie's announcement of her college acceptance just hit home the fact that soon she wouldn't be here, that she'd be off doing what she wanted in the city while I was stuck here.

She grinned at me again and went to the drawer so she could let herself into the backroom. Knowing her, she probably smiled the whole way there.

When Sookie came back I asked, "So what does your availability look like for next Saturday? I'll schedule it so you, me, Stan, and Amelia aren't working that night … or Sunday morning."

She didn't even hesitate to answer, "I'll be free. Why?"

I smirked. "You know why."

Her face lit up. "Infamous Eric Northman house party?"

"Yep."

I watched her closely for any signs of her party PTSD that I had prescribed for her, but other than a giggle she didn't do anything. But maybe she was used to masking her feelings.

"Great," she replied enthusiastically. "But before then, what do you want me to do now?"

Swallowing the obvious answers, I told her she could just bag and tag and ring up customers with me. The day was kind of slow, so mostly I just asked her questions and she answered them—about what dorm she'd be living in, what kind of person she'd want as her roommate, what would her teachers and guidance counselors say tomorrow when she told them, and whether anyone else from her school was going (no, she laughed, they're too stupid for Tulane).

Sookie answered all of my questions, most of them in great detail, but I heard without listening. Every word that came out of her mouth was a pesky reminder that soon she wouldn't be here talking to me; instead she'd be in New Orleans talking to a boy who had a huge crush on her that would probably amount to something because they were the same age and didn't work together.

And that is why I scheduled for Sookie and me to open next Saturday and get off of work at five. I was a manipulative bastard abusing my scheduling powers to get what I wanted. And what I wanted was more time with Sookie—and I had a hunch that if my party started at seven and Sookie was done with work at five, she wouldn't feel like driving all the way home just to be there for an hour or so.

If my gamble paid off, then she'd want to stay in the area. My house was in the area. And she could stay there.

And it was there that I could finally make a move on Sookie. If she was agreeable to it, then it'd be fucking fantastic, obviously. And if she didn't, then I'd make her tell me why, and then she could put my paranoid worrying to rest and tell me what happened to her with that Bill guy. I was brave enough to see it as a win-win situation for me.

...

**SPOV**

I happily accepted the Facebook event Eric had created for his party when he invited me to it a few days after he asked me in person (it was our first Facebook interaction ever). It said that it'd start with dinner at seven and go on from there, but that confused me because Eric had scheduled just the two of us to work that day until five; Amelia and Stan, who had also RSVP'd yes, had that day off. Why was that? But of course I kept my mouth shut and didn't say anything, not even that Saturday when I met him to open the store and he'd asked if I was excited for tonight.

Of course I was. I was so excited I brought my makeup bag and a short purple dress left over from my actual party days. It was tighter than I remembered, but not grotesquely—it was probably considered loose for some people. But I didn't know how fancy this party would be, so the clothes I'd worn to work today—a pair of skinny jeans, gold ballet flats, and a green tunic—also could be considered party clothes. I'd even straightened my hair, which was something I never did, especially at eight in the morning like I did today.

But for every time I giddily thought about the party, there were two times I thought about it with dread. What if I couldn't have a good time? What if something happened?

I was kept distracted during the day, which was good. Things were always slower in the mornings, so Eric was by himself at the cash registers while I put away CDs from the cart until my break at two. After I came back, I was on cash registers with Chow, since Eric went on break after me and then had to do work in the office.

At 5:02, I was opening the drawer to get the keys to the backroom, but when my hands fisted around the cold metal I looked up and saw Eric approaching me with his backpack and my tote (I wondered if he thought it was unusual, since I usually just brought a little purse and I also usually didn't bring an extra change of clothes, including bra and underwear, to work).

"Tagged you out already," he commented once he was behind the counter and handed over my bag.

"Thank you."

"Talk to me while I have a smoke?" he asked, nodding towards the door.

I followed him outside. We assumed the positions we usually took when we were outside and Eric was smoking, and since I didn't know what he wanted to talk about I stayed quiet the whole time he fished out a cigarette and a lighter.

"Excited for tonight?" he said, blowing a ray of smoke up at the sun.

"Yeah!" I replied. "Can't believe it's in two hours."

"I know," he said, "and I still haven't bought food or alcohol for the party. I know what I want to get, obviously, but I haven't done anything with it."

"Do you need help with that? Because I was just going to go to the coffee shop and fool around on my laptop before the party—I'm not doing anything important," I offered before I could stop myself.

I couldn't believe I was actually saying what I thought around Eric, but his grin was so big and welcoming I knew it was a good thing.

Eric paused, looking hard at me. He inhaled on his cigarette, and as he exhaled, smoke streaming out of the side of his mouth, he said, "Really? Are you sure?"

I shrugged my shoulders all nonchalantly. "Yeah, why not?" But inwardly, I was jumping up and down.

Cigarette balancing in between his lips, Eric smiled with his mouth shut. "You don't have to, you know."

After a moment, I quietly said, "I want to."

He didn't wait at all to reply, "I was hoping you'd say that."

After a shared moment of smiles, I asked, "So what were you thinking?"

Eric looked startled and took a drag of his cigarette before he spoke. "About what?"

"The food and drinks. What's on the menu for tonight?"

He smiled, relieved about something. "It's pretty nice out, so I was thinking I'd grill the basic hot dogs, hamburgers, and veggie burgers. And other than that I think it's just party food, like chips and dip and stuff, and mixers. I don't know, we'll see what we need at the grocery store—and if there's anything else you think we need we can add that."

"Okay. And I won't even ask about what's for drinks, since I wouldn't know what you'd be talking about to begin with," I joked.

"We'll stop at the liquor store too, so I can give you a little drinks 101 as we look around."

He kept saying "we," which I would adore except I was too busy thinking about how "we" were going to drive to these places. Should we carpool? Or would I just follow him around everywhere? But when I finally mustered up the courage to ask, Eric had an answer that was C.) None of the above.

"I have to use my roommate's pick-up truck to bring the kegs back, so would you mind following me to my house and then go do the shopping in the truck with me?" he asked.

"No, yeah, that's fine," I assured him.

The only question I had left was how late this party would last, but there was no way in hell I was asking that now. When I had told Gran yesterday that I was going to a party, she asked how late I was going to be and I told her I didn't know. I wasn't planning on getting plastered at the party, so there was no issue of me driving drunk, but there was the issue of me driving late at night that I was concerned about. Gran was surprisingly cool with it, just asking me to call before I drove home.

She didn't know that I'd lied and told her Amelia was throwing the party when she asked. Eric didn't either.

Eric stomped on his cigarette and squinted up at the sun before looking over at me. "Okay. I guess just follow me, then."

I nodded, and we went into our own cars and on our way to Eric's home. He didn't live that far away, maybe twenty minutes. It was funny that he and Stan lived so close to the store; it made me wonder if they'd just moved in.

Eric, I found, lived on the outskirts of Shreveport on a street right off the main road, and he pulled into the driveway of a small grey one-story ranch style house in the cul-de-sac of the street (the only one in the cul-de-sac, which was interesting). There was a red pick-up truck parked outside the driveway, so when Eric pulled into the driveway I hesitated, figuring I could just park on the street.

Eric got out of his car and yelled, "Just come in the driveway or else you'll get boxed in," so I followed his orders and parked next to him.

When I got out of the car, I had a better look at the house. There were a couple shrubs and bushes but no flowers, and the grass wasn't very green. But he had a big yard, and most of it was surrounded by the forest that was in the back.

"Here, let's go inside so I can get the keys and grocery list and you can meet my roommate," Eric said when he saw I was finished looking around.

The inside of the house also made it clear no women lived here. There weren't that many paintings or pictures in the hallway, but from what I could see of the living and dining rooms, the interior of the house had very modern furniture, most of it wooden. The walls were painted and didn't have any wallpaper, and there weren't any carpets on the wooden floors.

At the end of the hallway was the kitchen, which was done in blues and yellows and had a little island counter in the middle, which was where a broad-shouldered guy with glasses and a brown crew cut was standing next to. He was almost as tall as Eric but was bigger, and his green polo shirt looked stretched across his torso.

"Greg, this is Sookie. She works with me and is going to help us with party prep. Sookie, this is my roommate, Greg," Eric said, making the introductions as he dug around in a drawer.

"It's nice to meet you," I said politely, walking towards him to shake his hand.

"Same. And thanks for helping out with this," he said, gesturing to the kitchen. "Eric usually handles all the food and drink around here, so I'm helpless in a grocery store."

I laughed and looked at Eric—I'd never pegged him for the domestic type. "Really? You don't say."

Eric waved it off. "Yeah, yeah. Greg, give me your keys so you can technically help with the food and drinks."

Greg reached into his pockets and gave them to Eric. "Make sure you pick up a thing of Mike's Hard—you know how Lauren gets." He looked at me and said, "Lauren's my girlfriend. She's a sipper."

"Ohhhh," I said, hopefully knowingly What the hell was a sipper? Whatever it was, he didn't make it seem like a good thing.

"You got it," Eric said. He walked over to where I was and asked, "Ready to go?"

"Yeah. Let's do it."

On the way to the grocery store, Eric talked about his roommate and how they met. They'd moved in together six months ago, which was when Eric moved to Shreveport to oversee the construction of the Looney Tunes here, and Greg, who did graphic design stuff for websites, had inherited the house from a great-aunt who passed away. He met Eric when he designed part of the Looney Tunes website, and when Eric mentioned he had to move to Shreveport Greg said he could move in. Greg's girlfriend Lauren worked at a daycare center and lived in the next town over.

"Yeah, so you'll meet her tonight. You'll also meet Pam and Isabelle too, because they'll be there," Eric said, pulling into the parking lot.

He didn't say if he had invited a significant other to his party.

I was kind of intimidated by finally meeting Pam and Isabelle, mostly Pam. I didn't know that much about either of them, but I did know that Pam was very close to Eric and Amelia, and so I wanted her to like me too.

We didn't spend a whole lot of time at the grocery store—like Eric said, the list was pretty basic and really only called for grilling and snack foods, though we did pick up juice, soda, club soda, and almost every color of Jell-O. But we were there long enough for me to think about how domestic it felt getting groceries with Eric—to be walking down an aisle with him pushing a shopping cart and me checking items off our list.

Plus, as he'd said, people didn't come to his parties for the food.

That was why we spent more time and money at Al's Paper Bag Store—I didn't get the name at first, but Eric explained to me that alcohol used to be sold in brown paper bags so people could drink in public without getting arrested.

Eric picked up two kegs of beer, a whipped cream flavored vodka that he was really excited about, a bottle of white wine for Pam, peach and sour apple schnapps, and Mike's Hard Lemonade in the lemonade and cranberry lemonade flavors. After some deliberation, he threw in a 6-pack of Stella Artois beer, his favorite.

He said everything else he'd need was at home, but that didn't stop him from guiding me around the store and telling me the differences between red and white wine, wheat versus rye beer, ale versus beer, alcohol proofs, what champagne really was, the benefits of boxed wine, what margarita mixes were the best and why I should never, ever try a Clamato (tomato juice with clam juice, so I was more than ready to take his word for it). He wasn't patronizing—he was genuinely happy to teach me all of these things, because I was the ready and willing pupil to his worldly teacher. He just seemed excited to have someone to talk to this about, and even though there were so many things he taught me, I enjoyed it.

I offered to help pay for the alcohol like I did for the groceries, but Eric wouldn't let me. He said people usually tipped very well at the bar at his house because they knew how much effort he put into his food and drinks, so there wasn't anything to worry about. On the way back to his house he told me stories about drinking in college, how he was disgusted with the cheap beer and Everclear vodka people drank at parties and got a fake ID to start going to bars and learning about what alcohol should taste and look like. I wondered if he'd picked up older women at the bars, but I didn't want to know.

After putting the groceries away, Eric led me out to the backyard, which I was surprised to see had a functioning bar on the porch against the house. It looked exactly like the bar had looked at McFlattery's, with all the bottles of alcohol displayed behind the bar and three wooden stools for "customers" to sit on while they waited for their drinks. When he took me behind the bar, I could see there were two mini refrigerators there full of juices and sodas and fruit. He had shakers, tumblers, and drink glasses of every size. I saw a big tip jar on the far side of the counter and wondered if that's where people put their money. There were colorful coasters, swizzle sticks, drink rings, and sugar crystals for putting on the rim of the glass. Eric even had Chinese paper lanterns hanging from the roof of the bar and Christmas tree lights taped to the wall.

"This is my baby," he said, affectionately patting the wooden counter as he started putting the alcohol away. "The contractors who worked on Looney Tunes made this for me. It's my favorite possession—more than all my guitars put together."

"Eric, this is amazing," I told him. _You're amazing_, I wanted to say, but I didn't.

He stopped putting the juice in the fridge to look up at me and grin. "Thanks." After the club soda was moved in, he stood up and asked if I wanted to help him start with the food.

Now _that _was something I knew all about. I helped Greg put the chips, pretzels, and cheese puffs into party bowls and situate them all over the house, and I also worked on getting grilling necessities going with Eric on the back porch. Once the patties and dogs were cooking, Eric put Greg on grill duty and took me inside the kitchen, where he had me help him make what he called jungle juice, or Everclear and rum with fruit punch, Kool-Aid, and lemonade. He said it was a party favorite, and I'd probably drink it in college because it was quick and inexpensive—the leftovers of drinking, he called it.

Once we were finished, he poured the concoction into a Gatorade cooler with a nozzle to get the drink from, and then pulled out a bag of oranges and told me we were going to make orange peel Jell-O shots.

"I've wanted to try this for ages," Eric said, smiling a little as he started taking oranges out. There was a folded piece of computer paper in the bag that he took out and didn't open.

"Why?" I asked, watching him now reach into a drawer for a cutting knife and a cutting board. He also grabbed a couple spoons and bowls before walking back to the counter to place them in front of me.

"I don't know, it seemed like it'd be fun. I never even thought of something like this," he said. "I'm just scared it won't come out right. Jell-O shots are fussy to begin with, and this looks much harder."

Then, when everything was ready, he unfolded the paper, which turned out to be instructions on how to make orange peel Jell-O shots printed out. It did look intimidating—you had to cut the orange in half, scoop out the fruit, and then pour the alcoholic Jell-O mix into the orange peels and refrigerate. Once it was settled, you had to cut the orange halves into smaller fractions and serve.

I was in charge of gutting the oranges while Eric made the vodka Jell-O mixtures. I finished before he did, and after I cleaned up and put the orange parts in the jungle juice like he'd asked, I sat on a stool and watched him stir the bowl of purple Jell-O. I'd noticed this before, but this was the first time I could properly stare and admire the little veins in Eric's arms and how they danced when he gracefully moved his hands.

I always thought guitar players always had the nicest arms (after all, isn't that why Jeff Beck can pull off sleeveless vests even though he's well into his sixties?) and Eric was one of them. I didn't like meathead muscles like Quinn; Eric's arms were thinner but still muscly enough to make me really want to feel them. Not that I ever would.

Together we poured the bowls of red, orange, green, blue, pink, and purple Jell-O into the oranges; one bowl equaled four orange halves, or two whole oranges.

"Maybe next time we should try grapefruit Jell-O shots instead, so the shots will be bigger," Eric joked as we put them on cookie sheets into the surprisingly full and functioning fridge.

"Let's just try these out first before we start planning," I said, and Eric gave me a look before turning back to the counter to clean the bowls.

I offered to help and he said I could dry them, and once again I had a wave of nostalgic domesticity come over me. And then that was coupled with a wave of lust when I was four inches away from Eric and his sexy forearms.

Greg started yelling about the burgers smoking, and Eric rolled his eyes and gave me the sponge before he went outside to see what the deal was. I finished washing and drying and tried my best not to feel like a creeper looking out the window and watching Eric and Greg chat by the grill and set up the iPod in the speaker dock. They looked over at the window once or twice, but I knew from before that the light made it impossible to look inside it so I knew I was safe.

After that, people slowly started trickling in—some of them knew Greg, but all of them knew Eric. And amazingly, Eric knew all of them, remembering not only names but their partner's names and details like pets, vacations, jobs, everything. He let me grill while he welcomed everyone and made sure everyone knew there was beer, soda, and water in the coolers he'd set up opposite the grill. Greg had put up chairs and tables for people to be at, and then he disappeared inside. Eric was still socializing, so I just focused on grilling. No one tried to get anything at the bar; maybe because they were regulars and knew that the heavy drinking didn't come after the food.

It was a little bit after seven, and already a lot of people were at the party. Eric had an interesting group of friends—he had people who looked like they were in a motorcycle gang, and then there were his hipster friends (and all of the girls looked and dressed like Urban Outfitters and American Apparel models and didn't eat any of the food I put out). Most of the people at the party were guys, but there was a fair amount of girls who weren't their girlfriends at Eric's. No one approached me, either when I was grilling or when I was setting down the plates of food on the designated table, and it was a little awkward.

Eric didn't even notice; he was so busy talking to one blonde girl wearing a belly-sweater thing and skinny jeans who was artfully slouching just so he could see that there was a hint of what little amount of cleavage she had under her purposefully baggy sweater—_hipster whore_.

I didn't know where this jealousy was coming from—Eric wasn't _mine_ to be jealous of.

I wanted him, yes, but I was scared of wanting him too. I wanted to kiss him, but was terrified of how the kiss would be—I didn't want it to be bad because of my inexperienced history and I didn't want it to ruin what we already had. And though I dreamed, literally dreamed, of doing more than kissing with Eric, I knew that would never happen. I wanted to be okay with that, but I wasn't. I had so precious few people in my life who "got" me like Eric did, and I didn't want to lose one like I inevitably would with Eric. I was already losing him in a couple months when I went off to college, and I didn't want to gamble the remaining ones I had just to make a bitch back off.

That didn't mean I couldn't fantasize about it, though.

Plus, if what my teen magazines were telling me, no boys wanted to be boyfriends these days when they could be hookups or friends with benefits. This was the age where a text message booty call was the modern-day equivalent of a handwritten sonnet. I knew I would need to trust the guy so, so much, and there didn't seem to be anyone willing to put up with that while we waited

I didn't know that much about Eric's love life—or his sex life—but I could only imagine it was good because of his looks and personality. He'd had girls screaming bloody murder for him in those Fangtasia videos, and even though he stopped that and only played at a local bar I wouldn't be surprised if they still screamed like that for him and wanted him just as much when he wasn't a local celebrity.

Hookups were out of the question for me, and though Eric was a friend (and a very good one at that), I didn't want the benefits part to get in the way. There was no way I could put up with a casual sex relationship, not even with Eric, at all, and especially while knowing the guy didn't feel about me the same way I felt about himm, or even knowing he didn't feel something for me at all. And I was already way too into Eric that I would be crushed if we started something and he didn't like me half as much or I disappointed him.

Being Eric's friend was a thing in itself, and that was why he was able to have so many of them come to his party tonight. I didn't care. I was happy being his friend.

Would I be happier being more than just his friend? Maybe. But would I be sadder not being his friend at all? Absolutely.

It was easy to see why I'd fallen for him. Eric was the closest thing to a rock star around here, and it's easier to see yourself with the rock star of a record store than a rock star of the world. All the fantasy and it comes in a sexy package with added bonuses of realism and possibility.

And Eric didn't even know it—or if he did, it didn't show. Because he doesn't even know what he does to me, and he won't ever know because I'll never tell him, not when he could flash that gorgeous grin of his at anyone and get anything he wanted.

"Hey girl hey!" I heard a girl say to the right of me, and I looked over to find Amelia beaming down at me.

She was wearing a fabulous warm-hued head scarf and a beautiful flowy brown dress that reached the top of her knees, and she had paired it with olive boots and lots of gold bangles. Amelia looked like an adventurous '70s model, so beautiful.

"Hey you!" I exclaimed, putting the tray of hot dogs down so I could hug her hello. "Sorry if I smell like a grill, but I've been working one for like twenty minutes now."

"Don't apologize, you smell fine and look great. Eric has you cooking, huh?" she replied, and just like that I told her about how I had come here two hours earlier and went shopping and cooking with Eric. We had to stop our conversation at the part of the liquor store because so many people were crowding the food table and we moved over to a secluded corner, but that didn't stop Amelia's interest from waning. She seemed surprised that Eric had taken me back to his house so early.

"…and so yeah, then all these people started trickling in and Eric went off to play perfect host so I just kept cooking," I finished lamely, looking in Eric's direction when I mentioned him. He was still talking to that girl.

"That's Melody. She works in headquarters with the buyers," Amelia said, noticing my glance.

_Melody_. Christ, not only was she prettier than me, but her name was prettier than mine too. I just couldn't beat her.

"Oh," I said, organizing the plastic forks so they were all going in one direction. It was an important task, which was why I was doing it _right this second_ instead of talking to Amelia about Melody.

"She has a boyfriend—someone in the Coast Guard," Amelia said.

People cheated on their boyfriends all the time.

"So I heard Pam's supposed to be here," I commented, switching the subject.

It was the right move to distract Amelia—her face lit up and she started talking about how Pam was coming at eight-thirty and was bringing an overnight bag to stay at Amelia's house.

By the time Amelia gave me enough conversational room to do something other than smile and say "huh" at the right moment, Eric had moved on to talk to other people, and I watched Melody slink back to a group of mixed gender hipsters. He'd only been talking to her for a few minutes, no longer than the amount of time he spent with the guy with the ironic beard, but it didn't make me feel better.

Then he came over to us. "Amelia, glad you could make it," Eric said, hugging her hello.

_We've never hugged hello before_, I thought selfishly.

"Yeah, although it seems like Sookie got the grand experience here," she said, releasing him and taking a step back.

Eric's eyes darted to mine, and if I wasn't staring at his face I wouldn't see the little blush that bloomed on his cheeks, disappearing as quickly as it came. "Yeah, well, we worked until five and it didn't make sense for her to go home. Plus, I got a cook out of the deal!"

"Hey," I interjected, making them laugh.

Eric smiled warmly at me. "And a grocery shopping buddy, party preparer, and orange cutter," he conceded. "I haven't tried anything yet, but your hamburgers smell awesome."

Blushing at his words, I shrugged. But Amelia was more vocal. "Orange cutter?" she asked incredulously, silently demanding an explanation.

Eric looked at me and then back at her. "It's our surprise, for later in the evening."

Eric's use of pronouns today were dizzying—the "our"s and "we"s were almost too much for me to handle. So I simply smiled and did nothing else.

After a moment, he asked, "Anyone else hungry?" and we all walked to the table to get food. I was complimented on it by the two of them, and whenever anyone came to Eric to say how great the grub was he'd introduce me to them and say it was all me. Usually they said a little thing and then walked away, and I was fine with that. I still liked that Eric was trying to include me, as he always did.

I also liked that out of all the friends he had been talking to, he was eating dinner with me (and Amelia). I needed that reassurance after seeing him in his natural habitat. He was a social butterfly, and as for me, I was the wallflower.

Amelia excused herself from where we were standing in the right of the back yard to get another napkin. And when I turned to Eric to say something, he beat me to it by burping, loudly. Like, Will Ferrell in _Elf_ burping loudly after drinking two liters of Coke when Eric only had one of his prized Stella Artois to blame.

"What happened to the Eric that used to apologize for swearing in front of me?" I laughed, pretending to be angry and disgusted.

Eric smiled sheepishly. "He thought you didn't like that. Didn't want it, even, because you wanted him to feel comfortable around you."

How was it that I'd tried to rag on him for burping but I was the one who ended up feeling flustered?

Amelia returned to rescue me, and once he finished with his burger Eric squeezed my shoulder and complimented me once again on the food before moving to mingle some more.

His absence was later replaced with Pam's presence, but I would have taken his any day. Amelia and I had been hanging out together and talking, but that stopped when she got a call on her phone and left to find Pam and then introduce her to me.

Pam was perfect—perfect Pam. She was tiny and gorgeous, with big blue eyes and pale blonde hair that was straightened without a single frizz or flyway. She was wearing a cream colored skirt suit with a black shell underneath and red stilettos. It was attire better suited for a cocktail party than a backyard barbeque that was really just an excuse to get hammered.

No wonder Amelia talked about her all the time; if she were half a foot taller, Pam would have taken the modeling world by storm.

She already had the diva behavior working for her—how she managed to strut on the grass with four inch hells was beyond me. And she was staring at me the whole time she did it, taking in my appearance up and down and up and down again.

"Sookie, this is Pam. Pam, this is Sookie," Amelia said, happily making the introductions.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," I said cordially, sticking out my hand. After a moment, Pam accepted it and said the nice thing of how it's good to meet me too.

"I've heard a lot about you from Amelia and Eric," I said, smiling pleasantly at her.

"Likewise." She stared at me and her reply was so icy and frosty I expected the area around her mouth to freeze. She didn't make it sound like a good thing like I had.

"Oh," I replied, trying so hard to be nice. "Well, I know Eric got your wine for you, and it's behind the bar whenever you're ready for it."

She looked me up and down, taking me in. _'How do you know what my wine is and that Eric has it?'_ her sweeping gaze said.

"Lovely," she commented dryly once she was done. "I'll need it for tonight."

To her benefit, Amelia looked mortified. Pam was acting like a total bitch, and I knew she'd been hot-and-cold with Amelia lately but I thought that was something that would stay in the bedroom, not go to a barbeque and intimidate the hell out of me.

Honestly, I had no idea what I'd said or done to get this reaction out of her, but I wished I could take it back. I really wanted Pam to like me because I knew she was so important to Eric and Amelia, but at this point I couldn't see what they saw in her. Gun to my head, I'd rather pick the gunman than Pam.

"Yeah, let's get you that wine," Amelia said, slipping an arm around Pam's slender shoulder and steering her away, towards the bar. As they walked away, Amelia looked back at me to shoot me an apologetic glance and mouth "Sorry."

Dismayed, I threw out my plate with a half-eaten burger and potato chips and went inside. I could see Pam and Amelia and Eric standing together at the bar, but I didn't give them a second glance before I walked into the house.

"Hey, Sookie," Greg said from where he was leaning against the table He had his arm around the waist of a little brunette wearing plain blue jeans and a pink v-neck sweater, and she smiled at me when I looked at them. "This is my girlfriend, Lauren."

"Hi," she said, holding her hand out to me.

We shook, and Greg explained that I worked with Eric.

"Oh," Lauren said, and I smiled, unsure what that meant. "It's just that, we always wondered what he's like at the shop."

"Really?" I asked, surprised. I thought he acted the same at his house—courteous, polite, making sure everyone was satisfied. His looks certainly didn't change.

"Yeah. I can't see him taking it very seriously when all he does is talk about how much he wants to get out of there and open his bar," Greg said.

"Oh, gosh, no! Eric's the best. He's Mr. Looney Tunes—I can't imagine it without him," I assured them. "He's professional. Whatever issues he has, he must leave them at home; I know of his bar plans and everything, but it never shows at his job."

"Hmm," was all Greg said.

I was about to defend Eric even more, but then he appeared out of nowhere next to me and put a hand around my shoulder.

"Mind if I steal her away?" he asked them.

"Sure," Greg said. Lauren echoed his statement, and then Eric wordlessly turned me around.

I thought he was going to take me outside, but instead he brought me down a carpeted hallway. He didn't bother turning on the lights, so we walked in the semi-darkness until we got to a door at the end of it. There was yellow caution tape across the door that read "Crime scene—do not pass," but that didn't stop Eric from opening it and letting me through first.

I was glad I went first and was sparred the embarrassment of having Eric in front of me when I gaped at what I assumed was his bedroom. When he flicked on the lights, I saw that the walls were surprisingly bare, painted cream with wooden trim; I would have thought it'd be covered in posters of rock stars. His dresser was equally devoid of pictures, either personal or of celebrities. The carpet was forest green and littered with socks and books (but no dirty underwear!) and the unmade bed had a black comforter and grey sheets, with a silver Macbook on the pillow.

"Sorry it's messy, I just needed somewhere private to talk," he explained, picking up some things off the floor.

"What's up?" I asked, leaning against his closet. The bed was far too personal and besides, he hadn't invited me to sit down.

"Amelia told me Pam was really bitchy when she met you and I wanted to apologize," he said from across the room.

"It's okay," I said automatically.

His voice hardened. "No, it's not."

"Eric, it's fine, I—"

"Stop, Sookie," he said, exasperated. He held out a hand in the universal "stop" gesture too. "It's not fine and it's definitely not okay. It's rude and unfair and mean and you don't deserve to be treated like that, Sookie, and you shouldn't take it from anyone, including my best friend."

"Why did she do it then?" I said, asking the million dollar question. What had Eric or Amelia said to make her think it was okay for her to react to me like that? What had I done to get that from her?

He was quiet and I silently stood, watching him. Even in the brightness of the room I could see the whites of his eyes, and that only made his blue pupils look even darker. The contours and shadows of his face were more defined, and the high, clear cheekbones that normally just looked cut and sharp were distorted into seeming hallowed and sunken. Especially when he walked from the bed to the closet and stood in front of me.

Without warning he took the two steps between us and placed two fingers under my chin to make sure I was looking at him. Breath hitched in my throat, I visibly stiffened at the thought of him leaning in for a kiss, and I hated that it wasn't anticipation but rather nervousness and pure anxiety that surged through me. What would I do if he pressed his lips to mine?

Eric's eyes had been at my lips, but now they were staring at my eyes unflinchingly, unblinkingly. He was reading me, but seeming to take forever to do so. I was aware of how loudly I seemed to be breathing compared to him.

After a long moment, Eric, instead of kissing me, put his arms around me and pulled me into a hug, sinking his weight fully into me and almost pressing me into the wall. Shocked into submission, I could only take him into the hug.

"Pam feels threatened. She doesn't have a lot of close friends or people to talk to, and when her two closest friends started gushing about a new girl, she didn't take it too well," he mumbled to my hair.

First off—_gushing_?

My arms had been behind his back, but I moved them to his chest—without even thinking of what it looked like to him—and pushed him back a little so he could see my incredulous expression as I asked, "Are you kidding me? Pam is threatened by _me_—the same mature, successful businesswoman in the $1200 power suit is threatened by the eighteen-year-old in head-to-toe Forever 21?"

"I wouldn't say she's mature, after what she just did," he admitted softly. "But yes, she is."

I realized my hands were still on Eric's chest and quickly dropped them. "I don't believe that."

Eric shrugged. "I asked her to apologize, but I wouldn't hold your breath. I'm sorry she did that."

He seemed to be taking this harder than I did. Don't get me wrong—I was touched that he took the trouble to personally speak to Pam about her attitude and then find me and take me to his room to apologize for her. But I was also surprised that he did all that. For me.

"Thank you, Eric," I said.

"Are you okay?" he asked simply.

I had to look away from his gaze, it was too much. Looking past Eric's shoulder, I replied, "I'll be fine. It's just, I know Pam is friends with you and Amelia and I wanted her to be my friend too. This wasn't a good way to start the party."

He dipped his head a little. "I know."

"And I thought tonight I could hang out with you and her and Amelia, but now I can't," I admitted.

"Why is that?" he asked, confused. He hadn't moved away and was still hovering over me, and I had to look up at him.

I thought it was obvious. But still, I explained, "She's going to be with Amelia all night, and you obviously know everyone here."

"Well, yeah, but that doesn't matter. I could introduce them to you—you could mingle. You were talking to Greg and Lauren earlier. Stan and Isabelle should be here soon," he said, crossing his arms across his chest and raising his shoulders at the same time.

I _really _didn't want to have to stoop this low. It was embarrassing for me. But Eric wasn't getting it.

"I know, and I could, but I … don't really want to be, um, alone at this party," I mumbled. Now there was no way I was looking Eric in the eye.

"Oh, Sookie," he said quietly, and his tone was so tender I had to see if he was mocking me. He wasn't. "If you don't want to be alone here at this party, surrounded by people and their drinks, you can spend it with me, kind of away from them all."

"What do you mean?" I asked carefully.

He opened his mouth, and then closed it. He looked down at the floor and then back at me, and I could see he was pursing his lips, like he wanted to say something but wasn't sure if he should.

After a moment, he said, "I don't do much socializing at my parties, which is why I'm so chatty at the beginning of them, like I was earlier. I play bartender and pretty much spend most of the party behind the bar, serving drinks to people. If you wanted to, you could help me make drinks and be with me behind the bar for most of the night."

"Really?"

I didn't bother trying to control the excitement from my face. That was an excellent proposition by Eric—one I was going to accept. I wouldn't be expected to drink a ton, I wouldn't have to strike up conversations with people since they'd be doing it with me, and I would be with Eric the whole night.

"It's stupid, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—" Eric started to say, misinterpreting the surprised pitch of my voice.

"That sounds perfect," I said, cutting him off.

He laughed a little. "Yeah?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

After a moment he asked, "Want to start now?"

"Sure."

"Okay then. Hold on a second," he said, and he moved to the right of me to open his closet—which had a lot of jeans and shirts in it, the whole floor covered in different boots and sneakers. I noticed a nice suit in his closet and wondered where he'd worn it.

He took a plaid red and black flannel shirt on and put it over the white v-neck he'd been wearing with plain Levis. "Let's go," he said, and walked out of the room.

I turned the lights off and closed the door behind me and then followed him down the hall. I would have thought he'd lead us to the bar, but instead he went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Ah. He handed me a cookie sheet of the oranges and then took the other for himself and motioned for me to walk to the bar. So I did, with Eric trailing behind me and a bunch of people trailing behind him who were curious about the Jell-O slices of oranges.

After rolling up his sleeves, Eric took a knife from behind the bar and started cutting the slices into fractions. He was a little upset that people were so eager to try them that they took them right off the cookie sheets—he wanted to try out the best ways to present them on plates and platters, but no one would stop to let him. The orange slices were a _huge_ hit. People actually fought over what colors they took.

They also talked to me, asking who I was and what I was doing behind the counter. I'd just smile and tell them my name and say I worked with Eric, and by that time they'd picked their slice and said bye and moved on. I was okay with that.

The slices were gone very quickly, and Eric asked if I could put the cookie sheets away, so I did. That was really the only time I left his side—I really did spend the whole party behind the bar with him. Like in the liquor store, Eric loved showing me how to mix drinks—cocktails, shots, even how to pour wine and hold the stem of the glass. After a ten minute crash course, I was able to take some people's requests, although there were times I had to ask Eric for the recipe or how to mix it. A lot of people had their margaritas (my favorite to make) and mixed drinks and shots.

These were the people who left twenties in the tip jar after thanking Eric for hosting the party. I was surprised by their generosity, but Eric wasn't. Some people would just come up to the bar and put money in without ordering a drink, choosing instead to get their drinks from the kegs or the gallon of jungle juice (both things Eric predicted I'd see a lot of in college). Melody was one of those people who didn't approach Eric and his bar.

During this time Eric received a text message from Stan saying he wasn't going to make it. Eric seemed a little bummed, but I wasn't—more Eric time for me.

After the first hour, Eric started pouring me shots to drink—but they weren't your typical shots (and the typical shot glasses, because he had a huge bag of plastic ones). First he gave me a shot of the Stella Artois beer he was drinking (he'd kept the whole six pack for himself in the fridge behind the bar and would sip from a can when he had a moment to himself) because he said it was his favorite beer and I needed to try it. But that prompted him to run to the keg and fill up a cup of that beer that he filled a shot glass of and pushed at me, so I could taste the difference. I did, and when I told him I liked his beer better he beamed before giving me another shot of it.

And then he gave me a shot of the jungle juice, which I liked, and then a shot each of the different Mike's, which I really liked but pretended that it was just okay so he wouldn't think I was a "sipper" (whatever that meant) like Lauren, who also enjoyed drinking Mike's. Then it was a shot each of the wine, one for the red and one for the white, with Eric talking in my ear about years and locations and manufacturers as I thought about how hot his breath was and how I could smell the four beers on his breath.

Since he was giving me small amounts of alcohol that weren't even meant to be taken in small amounts, I felt fine after an hour of that. Eric always asked if I wanted to try something before he poured me a shot, and he always watched me drink it and waited for my comments. He made sure I had a chaser of club soda or juice to drink from, to cleanse my palette.

But then the shots got heavier—I tried a tequila shot, licking the salt off my hand that Eric had poured on it and, after drinking the shot, grabbed the slice of lime from Eric's hand to suck on it, hard, because the alcohol burned my throat.

This was the first poured shot-shot I'd had, besides the red and pink Jell-O oranges that Eric had saved, one of each color for us. Eric was anxious to see my reaction, and asked what I thought once I chased the tequila shot with the club soda.

"Woof!" I exclaimed once I put the cup back on the counter, causing Eric to laugh. "That was … different. But good-different."

"You just did a tequila body shot," he told me. "It's always good-different, especially when you do it off another person."

"Do what off another person?" I asked.

He looked around—the bar was surprisingly empty at the moment—and then back at me. "Usually you put the salt on the other person's body—like their neck or their wrist or their stomach—and they have the wedge of lime in their mouth, so when you suck at it it's almost like you're kissing them."

For a brief moment I pictured licking the salt off of Eric's neck and then sucking on the lime he was holding between his teeth.

"And you do that at a bar, in front of people?" I asked, embarassed by how conservative and naïve I sounded.

"Especially if it's spring break and you're in Mexico," Eric said, grinning like a shark bearing all its teeth.

My heart pounded with the heavy bass line of the rap song playing from the speakers—all of the songs played were rap songs, surprisingly, or Girl Talk songs—as I thought of a reply. "Can all shots be body shots?" I asked, finally.

"No, not really—unless you're desperate. And with some it'd just get sticky and gross, with the consistency and all," he explained.

"Oh."

"Here, like this one—you won't need a chaser with it," he said, taking two bigger shot glasses out of the bag and setting them in front of us. He bent down and got the orange juice out of the refrigerator, and then asked me to get the whipped cream flavored vodka from the shelf. When he was finished pouring a shot of each into a glass, he slid one over to me.

"Cheers," he said, holding his out for me to clink with mine, and I did that before tipping my head back and downing the shot. It tasted like a creamsicle, if you didn't think about the alcohol burn aftertaste.

"Pretty damn good," Eric said, filling up his whole shot glass with just the vodka. He threw that back, cocking his head and swallowing, his Adam's apple bobbing, as he finished the drink. After he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked at me and said, "Goes down nice even by itself."

"Really?" I asked. My throat was still on fire from having it mixed with the orange juice. I couldn't imagine taking it on its own.

"Would you like to try?"

"Um … I'd rather have a cup of it mixed with the orange juice," I said.

I was scared he'd be offended, but instead he was as pleased as punch. "And that, Sookie Stackhouse, was the first drink you ordered for yourself," he said, reaching to get me an actual glass, not a red plastic cup.

"Huh, I guess you're right," I said, mulling it over in my head.

He made the drink and made to slide it over to me, but then stopped. I watched him take out a box of paper umbrellas, and he took a pink one out and fixed it on my glass.

I was the only one who had a drink with a paper umbrella in it.

"Here," Eric said, and I sipped it gratefully, making sure I smiled when I was done.

Having an actual drink, and then a refill of the creamsicle, didn't stop me from asking to try the shot versions of the sour apple schnapps and a gin and ginger ale. When I made shots of both of those drinks and people were around, they often laughed and asked me why I was doing it.

During the time where I thought of an answer, Eric smoothly cut in and answered for me, "Because then she can try all the drinks she wants without getting hammered," making them laugh.

He was right about me trying all the drinks without getting hammered, but at the rate I was going he'd soon be wrong. I hadn't had a sip of alcohol in a couple years and I was a lightweight to begin with, so at this point I was really feeling the alcohol. I felt warm and my lips were a little tingly, and I noticed that I laughed much, much harder than the people at Eric's joke. I think Eric did too.

"How you doin', Sookie?" he asked once they were gone. He put a hand on my shoulder, and it felt incredibly warm and good—like, hot shower after a rainy day good.

"I have to pee," I said, because right then I really did, so much I wasn't embarrassed to say it or ask where the bathroom was, which I also did. Eric gave me directions to where it was in the house, and I walked there, feeling very loose and sway-ey. After opening a couple doors, I finally found the bathroom by process of elimination, and I made sure I locked it before I went to the bathroom—I felt like I peed for five minutes straight, it was so long.

Someone knocked on the door while I was washing my hands, and I called out, "One minute!" as I dried them on the towels. When I opened the door, I saw Pam was there, looking every bit as surprised as I felt.

"All yours," I said, casting my eyes down and moving out the door.

I felt a hand on my arm stop me—hers—and I turned around to look at her questioningly.

"Eric said I should tell you I'm sorry," she offered.

"Oh," I replied, waiting for her to go ahead and say it.

"Amelia told me that Eric is really close to you," she said instead, taking a sip of her wine from her glass.

I wondered if she was drunk, and that's why she was talking to me. And then I wondered if I was drunk since I was letting her.

"She said the same thing about you."

Pam shook her head no. "Not like that. A special kind of close. Like, meaningful glances and inside jokes and cigarette break talks and getting purses without being asked and those kinds of things."

"We're really good friends, just like you two are," I protested.

Now Pam shook her head so hard a couple strands of pale blonde hair came out of her hair clip. Yep, she was drunk.

"NO! Not like we two are. We became friends after he tried to fuck me and I told him I was gay. But you, you're special to him because he hasn't told you yet he wants to fuck you or—God forbid—date you and he's friends with you _now_. And Amelia likes you a lot too, although I'm more concerned about Eric liking you than her. Because I'm just concerned about Eric, you know?"

"Why?" I asked.

Pam answered, "Because I think he's killing himself at his job. I don't even mean artistically, because that is also true, but, like, humanly? Ever since he was put in charge of building and managing the damn store he's been so stressed out, and I've never seen him work so hard. But then about a month ago he starts talking about how work isn't so bad anymore, and then a week ago I go to a bar with him and he's talking to this crazy beautiful girl who makes it clear she wants to sleep with him, and he just turns her down and walks back to the table. That's never happened before."

I shrugged my shoulders. I couldn't believe the number of times people have spoken to me about Eric, automatically assuming we were together. It was flattering to think that a girl like me could be with a boy like him. But it was also heartbreaking because I knew it would never happen. I mean, I was glad Eric didn't sleep with her, but what did this have to do with me?

Pam finished the rest of her wine and continued, "And then as soon as we're home Amelia starts talking about this Sookie chick—Sookie with the blonde hair, Sookie with the bee-stung lips even before she had the allergic reaction, Sookie who's still in high school but doesn't act it and certainly doesn't look it. Girl-next-door Sookie."

I didn't know what to say and was trying to process all of this. Amelia said that about me?

Pam took my silence and ran with it. "And then I come to this party and you're here, and then Amelia tells me you've been here for hours helping Eric with getting groceries and other party shit. And you're nice and pretty and make Eric laugh and dote on you behind the bar—no one's ever gone back there, you know? So it makes me wonder what makes you so special. And I couldn't see it before, because your boobs and blonde hair and rosy cheeks got in the way, but now, after watching you interact with Eric, I think I see it."

"See what?"

She huffed impatiently. "That the bad boy gets the good girl. That the older man gets the younger woman. That the rock star gets the groupie. That the boy gets the girl."

"You're wrong. And drunk. We're just friends," I told her forcefully. "It's the friend gets the friend."

She stopped and looked me straight in the eye, and I was scared I went too far and she'd bitch me out or worse, pull my hair. But she didn't do any of those. She kind of tilted her head when she looked at me and said, "I think we're going to be just friends. Wait for me, and then we'll talk some more."

Pam walked in the bathroom and closed the door before I could reply, and I stood dumbfounded in the hallway, shocked into waiting for her. But when she came out, we didn't talk some more—we drank some more.

We drank to celebrate our friendship, my friendship with Eric, her friendship with Eric, the friendship of everyone in the house and the city and the country and the whole wide world. The container of jungle juice was in the kitchen and we drank that after Pam poured a lot of peach schnapps (she'd stolen it from the kitchen counter) into our red cups and we started toasting everyone and everything we could think of.

It was obvious—I was drunk. And while that was surprising enough, there was the tiny thing that I was drunk with Pam, and I wasn't expecting either of those to happen to me before the party started. But here I was, sitting in the dark hallway with Pam and her schnapps, the two of us giggling like crazy, when Amelia found us.

"There you are, Pam, I've been looking everywhere for you," Amelia said; Pam was sitting on the side closest to the hallway, so Amelia didn't see me at first.

I made sure she did when I leaned over and waved idiotically at her. "Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!"

"Uh, hi, Sookie. What are you two doing?" Amelia asked cautiously.

"Being friends, dummy!" I said like she was a dummy, causing Pam to snort with laughter. When she did that, she turned to me, eyes widened in shock at what she just did, and we both started roaring with laughter while Amelia looked on.

"Um, okay, why don't you two stay here being friends for a minute while I go get Eric?" Amelia said.

"So we can all be friends together!" I cried, thrusting my cup in the air. A little bit of the drink sloshed out on the carpet and I turned to Pam and giggled. She just pointed to the stain on the carpet and cackled.

"Right. Just, don't go anywhere," Amelia said, turning on her heel to walk away.

"She was soooo surprised to see us," Pam remarked once she was gone.

"She probably didn't expect to see us," I said, slurring a little.

Pam said, very matter-of-factly, "We're both pretty blondes. Of course we're friends."

"Of course! You're so pretty!" I gushed.

"No, you're so pretty! So, so pretty!"

"We're both so pretty!"

"Yay!" We hooked arms and drank, finishing our drinks. Now it was just the schnapps bottle that we passed back and forth, giggling when we weren't drinking.

"See what I mean," Amelia said knowingly, walking towards us with Eric right next to her. The dimness of available light didn't conceal the concern and surprise Eric was showing.

"Hey hey hey," I said in a goofy voice, causing Pam to lean over and put her face on my shoulder as she laughed.

"You are so funny, Sookie," she told me.

"You're so funny!" I said, patting her hair.

Eric and Amelia looked at each other. Then Amelia came over and kneeled next to Pam. "Pam, I think it's time to get going. Say goodbye to Sookie, okay?"

"Bye, Sookie!" Pam said, twisting to hug me. I hugged her hard, sorry my new friend had to go.

Once that was done, Pam stood up, very wobbily, with Amelia's help. When I tried to stand up, I had to put both hands on the wall over my head and kind of thrust myself up, but that wasn't working. Eric saw that and came over to help me up, and once I was standing I gave Pam a standing goodbye hug as well.

"We have to make it official and be Facebook friends," Pam said, taking her phone out of her pocket.

She opened Facebook up and typed my name in—only she did it in the box where you're supposed to make your status, so her status was literally "Sookie Stackhouse." Once she realized what she did, she shoved the phone in my face to show me and we both started howling with laughter. Amelia took the phone out of Pam's hand and typed in it before telling us she sent me a Facebook request on Pam's behalf and now they had to go home. And after one final hug, they were gone.

"How much did you have to drink once you left?" Eric asked me. We were still in the hallway, me leaning against the wall and Eric leaning against the other one.

"Lots. There were a lot of friendships," I seriously replied by way of explanation.

"Okay," Eric said dubiously. "Want to come out with me to the bar again for a bit?"

I nodded my head—or tried to, before I thought it'd fall off if I kept doing that. "Okey-dokey, mister."

He tried hard not to laugh as he asked, "Mister?"

"Yep."

We started walking down the hall, with Eric's hand on my elbow for support, and Eric led me out to the bar. But this time he got a chair for me to sit in while he bartended alone, and he wouldn't let me try any more drinks or shots. He said I could only drink from the bottle of water he gave me, so that's what I did.

When I finished it, Eric asked me to take my phone out. I couldn't believe it was midnight already.

"Sookie, you're going to have to stay here tonight. I can't let you drive home in your condition, and it's the only thing I can think of," he said, crouching down in front of me.

"'s fine," I mumbled.

"Was your Gran expecting you home tonight?"

"Yeah. Uh, oops," I said, giggling.

"Oops is right," Eric said under his breath. To me he asked, "Does she know you're here?"

"Hahaha … NOPE!"

"Where does she think you are?" He said it really carefully, like he was talking to a little kid.

"At Amelia's house."

"Sookie, I need you to call your Gran and say it's getting too late and Amelia said you could sleep over. Can you do that for me?"

"Of course!" I cried, getting my phone from my pocket.

I gave it to Eric and he started scrolling through it as he slowly said, "But you have to promise me you won't say you're with me or you're drunk—especially that you're drunk. Okay?"

"Yeppers!"

"Here you go. It's dialing." Eric gave me my phone and I pressed it to my ear as he watched, still crouched down. My knees were literally a foot away from his crotch, and his hands were firmly placed on the arms of the chair I was sitting in.

"Hello?" Gran asked, picking up after a couple rings.

"Hi, Gran. It's me, Sookie," I said. Eric nodded his head at me and I beamed.

"Are you driving home?" she said.

"Uh … not exactly. It's too late for me to feel safe doing that. Is it okay if I crash at Amelia's?" I asked, taking my time saying those words so I made them perfect for Eric. He gave me a thumbs up.

"If she says it is, then I'm okay. Are you having a good time?"

"The best. It's been so much fun." It really has been.

"I'm so happy for you, child. Call me tomorrow morning when you're on your way home, okay?"

"Mmkay"

"Good night. I love you," she said before hanging up.

"Love you too."

I closed the phone and handed it back to Eric with a triumphant grin on my face. "I did it!" I said gleefully, expecting his praise.

"Yeah!" he said, nowhere near as enthusiastic as me. After a moment he asked, "So you lied and said you were at Amelia's?"

"I had to." The "duh" went unsaid. Wasn't it obvious?

"Why? Your Gran met me—she knows who I am. I thought she liked me."

He sounded wounded, so I tried to comfort him by saying, "She does. A lot. She thinks you're a cutie and a modern-day gentleman."

Eric's eyes widened as he chuckled. "She does?"

I nodded. "Yeah. And she said her husband was four years older than she was and it was okay."

He gave me a strange look. "Why did she say that?"

Crap! I realized my slip too late. "I don't know. She's old," I said, shrugging my shoulders. "Now what do we do?"

Eric looked at me searchingly for a couple seconds. Then he stood to his full height and replied, "I am going back to the bar and you are going to sit there for a while."

"But I have to pee again!" I said.

He ran his hand through his hair. "Okay, fine. But this time I'm going with you."

I got out of the chair and shook a finger at him. "You can't go with me, silly. That's gross."

"I'll walk you to the bathroom, I should have said," he amended.

And he did just that, waiting for me in the hall while I went.

"Eric, I'm sleepy," I said when I came out. I knew I had told Gran I was sleeping over at "Amelia's," but it didn't hit me where I'd actually be sleeping until now. And when it did, it hit me like a Mack truck.

_I was going to sleep over at Eric's house._

"Do you want to go to sleep now?" he asked me.

"Yeah," I said, yawning all of a sudden.

"Are you okay with sleeping in my bed?"

"Where would you sleep then?" I asked, confused.

Startled, he answered, "On the couch."

"But the couch doesn't have any blankets." I was really concerned about that—it'd be cold for Eric!

"I can put blankets on the couch," he promised me. "Don't worry."

"Okay. Then yes, I would like to sleep in your bed," I said, and Eric smiled at me and showed me to his room.

His bed was really comfy. His pillow smelled like him. I think I said that out loud when I didn't mean to, but this was when Eric was searching in his night stand for a bottle of aspirin for me and I didn't think he heard it. Or, at least he didn't acknowledge it when he made me take two Advil's and drink some more water.

Eric walked out of the room after I got settled in, and I was upset he didn't say goodnight. But then I heard footsteps and he came back with a bucket, which he put by the side of the bed I was on.

"What's that for?" I asked.

"In case you throw up," he answered.

I bolted into an upright position. "You think I'm going to throw up?"

He'd jumped when I sprang up, surprised by the sudden movement. "I don't know. Maybe? You had a lot to drink."

"Oh yeah," I said. I laid my head on the pillow again and tried not to think about how I was eye-level with Eric's crotch now.

"Good night, Sookie," he said, patting my head awkwardly before turning on his heel.

"Eric?" I asked, a little desperately.

"Yeah?" he replied, looking curiously at me.

"Can you just stay with me until I fall asleep—to make sure I don't throw up now?"

His gaze softened, and he took a step towards the bed. "Sure," he said, and he walked to the other side and sat down next to me on the bed, taking his phone out once he was seated.

"What's gonna happen tomorrow?" I asked sleepily.

Eric barked out a laugh. "Sookie, I have no idea. Just go to sleep."

And soon, I did.


	9. First Breakfast

**A/N: Thank you all for reading this. I hope it's as fun to read as it is for me to write! And for my beta chiisai-kitty, thank you for editing it so well.**

...

**EPOV**

It only took Sookie a good two minutes for her to fall asleep—just enough time for me to text Amelia saying Sookie had passed out and for her to reply that Pam had done the same. I said that the bottle of schnapps I'd found on the ground in the hallway was nearly empty, and Amelia replied that Pam would have to be wasted to giggle like a school girl.

Only Sookie would have been able to make Pam do that. But unlike Amelia, I didn't blame the alcohol—I blamed Sookie's sweet personality, her inviting smile that made you proud to know you're responsible for it, and her bright blue eyes that told you when she was looking at you, it saw the person you wanted to be, not the person you were.

But still, the difference between the Pam that had made me want to throttle her for her rudeness earlier this evening and the Pam I'd seen an hour ago was so grand I almost wasn't capable of understanding it.

When Amelia had marched over to the bar during dinner and told me what Pam said to Sookie, I'd lost it. I scolded Pam, asking her why the fuck she would do that, and she annoyed me so much by shrugging and saying if it was just Sookie then why did it matter so much? Why was I getting so upset? It wasn't like she was my girlfriend or anything.

Stuttering out of anger, I told her there was no excuse for her actions, and she retorted there was no excuse for me not asking her out when I so obviously wanted to. God, that woman—she was so _infuriating._

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sookie walk into the house, and I turned to Pam and hissed at her that she had to apologize to Sookie. She was crossing the line and I wasn't having it—not when it was in _my _house, happening to _my _friend, on _my_ watch, at _my_ party.

And when I had Sookie alone in my room, I had been all set to kiss her. Because the thought of someone treating her like shit as Pam had done and Sookie not doing anything about it was enough to make me want to try it, to either kiss Sookie or have her tell me why she couldn't.

Of course, because this was me, she did neither.

She just froze, deer-in-headlight eyes and everything. Sookie wasn't welcoming my advances but she wasn't repelling them, and I hated thinking of her doing that to some other guy as well. I wasn't going to be like him. So instead I hugged her, holding her tight to me. And when I couldn't do that anymore, I kept her close to me, behind the bar, where it was just me and her back there always.

I didn't mean to get her tipsy—I just wanted her to try all the alcohol she'd so patiently listened to me ramble on about earlier today at the liquor store—and I was sure Pam didn't mean to get her drunk. I didn't think Pam meant to get drunk either, but Amelia had told me Pam had practically polished off the bottle of wine, which was the only way I knew Pam would have even thought of touching the jungle juice and, I still don't know how she did it, finding Sookie and becoming best drunk friends with her.

Drunken Pam was as shocking as a fiery car crash, but drunken Sookie was adorable. Almost too adorable. It was like watching a Disney princess get drunk.

At least she had some (okay, a lot of) drinks at this party—I wasn't sure she would. I don't mean that in a "get her drunk and have my way with her" kind of thing, but more of an issue with comfort levels. Her comfort levels. Because when she was sober, she'd gone rigid and jumped that time in my room when I was apologizing for Pam's behavior.

Right now I wanted to curl up next to her on the bed, but I wasn't sure Sookie would like that. Sober Sookie, I meant, because drunken Sookie apparently loved everyone and everything ever and always so she probably wouldn't care.

But instead I sat next to sleeping Sookie, texting Amelia, the sound of my thumbs pressing the key pad just barely being more audible that Sookie's rhythmic sleeping breaths. I "liked" Pam's Sookie status on Facebook and scrolled through my mini-feed before looking over at Sookie.

Her back was to me, but the curve of her figure was clear even under my sheets. And I could see her body rise and fall a little—she was out.

I didn't think she'd throw up—then again, I really didn't know how much she had to drink. Still, I was glad she had already fallen asleep on her side. It didn't feel right to abandon the party to watch her sleep—in fact, it felt downright creepy—so I forced myself to go out and bartend, only stopping every twenty minutes to peek through my bedroom door and check on Sookie.

That went on for an hour, and then I checked on her every half hour, and then every forty-five minutes, and then every hour, and then it was five in the morning and everyone was gone or passed out (and thankfully not on the couch).

The backyard wasn't as messy as it had been at past parties, but the kitchen was cluttered with empty glasses; still, I just went to the hall closet and got sheets (smiling as I remembered Sookie's drunken concern for me) and passed out on the couch. It wasn't from alcohol, but exhaustion—it took a lot for me to get drunk, but I was feeling pretty good after my six-pack of beers and the whipped cream vodka, and also Sookie's getting drunk was sobering enough for me.

I was used to sleeping so little every night thar I was up and moving at around ten. I noticed some people who had been awkwardly sleeping on chairs or floors had left, but some were still there—they were mostly Greg's friends. And ten minutes later Greg came out of his bedroom and nodded at me before waking those people up so they would go home. I watched as I made a pot of coffee for us—I was sure everyone would need it.

Once the people had left, Greg came in the kitchen and helped me clean off the counter so I could make breakfast. We were mostly silent until Greg asked about Sookie, and once I replied that she'd fallen asleep in my bed it was like I couldn't get him to shut up about it.

Obviously, he'd asked if we did anything, and I told him nothing happened. But that didn't stop him from giving me these looks where his stupid eyebrows became upside-down U's and he grinned at me with the little clown-grin he does when he knows he's being an ass. Dickhead.

I told him about how Pam had somehow found Sookie and they got wasted, which was why Sookie ended up sleeping over.

I didn't tell him about how Sookie's Gran thought she was really sleeping over at Amelia's. I didn't want anyone else to know, because I didn't even like thinking about it.

But I was—over and over again, always hitting the "replay" button in my memory launcher. Sookie had said what her Gran thought of me, but not what she herself thought of me—though the comment about her grandfather being four years older than her grandmother was enough for me to have hope on. I was six years older than Sookie—could be worse (and, of course, could be better).

The coffee brewing, I went about cooking breakfast—scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. If Sookie wasn't up by the time it was done, I told myself I'd go and get her. Although breakfast smelled so heavenly I wouldn't have been surprised if she smelled it all the way in my room.

I always said the best hangover cure was a good, greasy breakfast. But since I wasn't eating it yet, I still felt a hangover headache coming on to me.

The only Advil in the house was in my room. Fuck.

There was enormous potential for the friendship-breaking, everlastingly awkward silence that would indubitably occur if Sookie happened to wake up _right _now. But I did it anyways. I needed the Advil, badly.

And that was why I tiptoed to my room and crept to my nightstand, cursing myself for not keeping the Advil behind the bathroom mirror like any other normal person. And when I opened the drawer, I cursed myself for so carelessly leaving my box of condoms and bottle of lube in a spot so vulnerable that Sookie could see them.

I knew she would never even think of snooping in my stuff, and would probably be pissed at me if she ever knew I considered she might, but it was still something that irked me. I quickly took the secret sex stash and put it in my sock drawer—all very quietly and carefully—and then went back for the Advil.

My head hurt, but now that I was looking at a sleeping Sookie, I knew it was more than a hangover headache; it was also an anger headache—one like I got on Record Store Day at the thought of not being to make those douche bags go away from Sookie.

Except the one I was having now was directed towards whatever douche bag had made Sookie so frightened of boys she'd stiffen when I tried to kiss her, therefore causing the only time she'd ever be in my bed when she was passed out in it, sleeping off her hangover.

And just like Record Store Day, Sookie was kind of the cause for this, she had shown me. It was like a couple weeks ago when she looked up at me, beaming little rays of "OH, ERIC, PLEASE DO SOMETHING TO MAKE THIS A DOUBLE RAINBOWS MOMENT FOR THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD" out of her big blue eyes.

It was also when she wore that low-cut blue tee shirt that made her look so maddeningly, inconveniently _hot_. The fact that I remembered the color of her stupid shirt was terrifying.

But not as terrifying as getting caught in my room while Sookie slept in my bed. That would be creepy beyond the old-man creepy I was used to feeling whenever I had thought of Sookie in my bed—something I kept in a faraway place of my psyche where no Dateline reporters could discover it.

I took the Advil bottle and put Sookie's cell phone on the night stand, since it had been in my pocket since she had drunkenly given me her phone after she talked to her Gran. I'd forgotten and fallen asleep with it in my pocket—it hadn't buzzed or rang the whole time.

Satisfied, I only looked at a peacefully sleeping Sookie for a couple seconds before leaving the room, closing the door behind me.

Mission completed.

But my special moment was ruined as soon as I went back to the kitchen and accidentally spilled coffee on my shirt, which hurt like a motherfucker. When I took my tee off, there was a big red splotchy circle from where the coffee had hit, and I quickly took a handful of ice and wrapped them in a wet paper towel before applying it to my war wound. That helped for a couple minutes, and once the ice started melting I threw them out, good as new.

Two seconds afterwards I was transferring the bacon onto the paper towel-covered plate when Sookie stumbled in, scratching her head adorably as she sat down on a stool at the counter. Greg had left to take Lauren out for breakfast so it was just the two of us—as always.

"Morning," I said quietly, mindful of the hellish hangover she had to be nursing right now. I slipped her a mug of coffee and a glass of water at the place I had set for her.

She mumbled thanks and gratefully took a sip of the coffee (black, like I'd seen her drink it before) before reaching over to grab the bottle of Advil. Sookie didn't say anything about how last night it was on my nightstand but now it was in the kitchen—was it her manners or her forgetfulness?

Just how much of last night did she remember?

Suddenly, Sookie looked up at me for the first time since she'd entered the room and then quietly added, "I'm so sorry about last night. And thank you for taking care of me."

"It was no problem. I'm glad you were able to have fun at the party," I said, meaning every word.

"Not having so much fun now. My head hurts so bad," she said slowly.

"That's what happens when you drink with Pam," I said. "Eggs will be done in a minute. Do you want milk or orange juice?"

She stared at me for a moment before saying she'd like orange juice. She was too tired to try to get it for herself like I knew she would have under any other condition, and that showed me just how hung-over she really was.

I had so many questions to ask, but I kept silent as we ate our breakfast, knowing how heavy your mouth can feel after a night of heavy drinking.

"A shower always helps, I think," I told her once breakfast was done. She'd brought her plate and cup to the sink, so I knew she was feeling a little better.

"Really?' she asked.

"Yeah. Do you want to take one? You can borrow some of my clothes," I offered.

After a moment she replied that she actually brought a change of clothes with her, but she would like to take a shower. I told her the towels were under the sink and she trudged off after bringing her mug to the sink too.

I hoped the shower would be enough to wake her up so I could start casually asking about what she remembered. But my plan backfired when I heard the spray of the shower announcing to my house that Sookie was naked inside of it. I quickly cleaned up the kitchen from both breakfast and the party, and then I started in the living room, which was just far away enough that I couldn't hear the shower going.

Maybe it was a good thing she had brought a spare set of clothes, because the sight of her in an old t-shirt and sweats of mine would have been too much to handle.

But when she walked out of the shower, I knew I was wrong. Like, "the sky is green" wrong. Turns out her idea of a change of clothes was really a tight purple racer back dress that was really tight, and really short. And it was _way_ too short when she bent down to pick up debris from the ground, like she was doing right now.

I had to remind myself she was in high school over and over again as I looked everywhere but in her direction.

It was like Sookie had brought this dress for the party but never got around to wearing it. And now she had it on just in front of me, instead of others. And while I was glad for that, since it meant I was the only one who would look at her and her legs, it was also bad because it meant I was the only one around, the only one here, and there wasn't anyone else who could walk in on us.

I kept my shit together, somehow. We silently finished the living room, with Sookie even going so far as to plump the couch pillows and ask if I slept there, which I told her I did. And then we went to the backyard, which wasn't as bad as I had remembered it being last night; Greg and Lauren must have started cleaning up there before he left.

But there was still work to do, so we went and started cleaning up that. We moved the kegs to the driveway so it'd be easy to get rid of them, and I noticed how much trouble Sookie had carrying the keg when I carried it effortlessly. It made me feel manly, and because I got to the driveway much quicker than she did I doubled back and took hers from her.

…

**SPOV**

When I woke up, this morning had the potential to be the morning from hell. I had never felt this hung-over before ever, and it was enough to make me want to stop drinking ever again. A good time would never be worth feeling this shitty.

I was startled when I woke up in Eric's bed—I had no memory of how I got here. Panicking, I looked beside me and saw Eric wasn't there—that even the covers didn't look sleeped in. I did a panty check and found I was still wearing all my clothes. I guessed I had fallen asleep in here, or had fallen asleep somewhere else and was brought here. It was still a jolt to wake up somewhere you'd only been in once while sober.

I saw the thankfully empty bucket by the bed and realized someone had placed it there in case I there up last night. Obviously I hadn't, but right then I felt like I did, so I rushed to the bathroom. I dry-heaved but nothing more than yellowish spit came up when I huddled over the toilet, so perhaps that was a good thing.

If Eric had heard me, he didn't mention it when I found him in the kitchen making breakfast.

Shirtless. Eric was cooking me breakfast in just a pair of jeans. Without a shirt.

Gah. What a sight to wake up to.

He was a fantastic cook, from the scent of the bacon, and a couple minutes later when I dug in the food tasted even better than it had smelled.

He'd been quiet and I appreciated it, because my head was pounding and my tongue weighed a thousand pounds and was as dry as a desert no matter how many times I took a sip from my juice cup or coffee mug. But when he asked if I wanted to borrow his clothes, I almost accepted, and not just because it would have taken less of a verbal effort than telling him I brought a change, even though the dress wasn't really meant to be worn before five o'clock.

It would have been interesting wearing Eric's clothes—but taking a shower in his house was interesting enough. He had low maintenance guy shampoo and body wash, but when I got a towel under the sink I saw a basket of hotel toiletries of shampoos and conditioners, and I used those instead. I did use his body wash though, which was very citrusy and smelled like Eric.

He didn't comment on my dress when we cleaned up the living room, and he really only started talking to me when we walked back from lugging the kegs to the driveway and he'd told me I looked more alive than I had earlier this morning.

"I feel a lot more alive. I had way too much to drink last night," I said easily. There was a joke to be made about how he was implying I looked bad earlier, but I was too tired to think of it.

"No kidding," he remarked, causing me to laugh. "And I'm curious—how did you end up best friends with Pam?"

_Because she spilled all your secrets and if my memory is good then you like me sort of, kind of, maybe?_

I was flustered, not knowing how to handle this. And couldn't he put on a damn shirt on already? He was hard enough to look at without swooning, and since I was so weakened in my hung-over state I wasn't as capable of controlling his reactions and he was making it difficult. He had dark blonde hair leading from his belly button to his jeans and he didn't have a six pack, but his pale torso was toned and still very attractive. It was mind-bending and eye-goggling and mouth-dropping, all of which were reasons why he _really_ needed to put on a shirt when I was trying to think of a way to tell him I didn't know there was something between us neither of us was acknowledging.

"Um, I ran into her after going to the bathroom, and she just kept talking about, I don't know, how she had heard so much about me and, uh, it wasn't until then that she got the hype. And then she grabbed the bottle of schnapps and some cups of jungle juice and, well, that was that, you see," I managed to spit out, all the while avoiding eye contact with half-naked Eric.

"I've never seen her _that _drunk before," Eric said with a laugh.

"Yeah, well, I believe it. I've never been that drunk before either. The last thing I remember is talking to Gran and then giving you the phone. I was surprised I didn't wake up in that chair this morning, since it was the last place I remembered being," I said.

AKA … _how the hell did I end up in your bed? _

Eric ran a hand through his hair even though the wind was already blowing it everywhere. "Not much really happened—after that you asked to go to the bathroom, and when you did that you said you were tired and I said you could sleep in my bed. You pretty much passed out after that."

We reached the bar by now, which was the last thing that needed to be cleaned, and Eric said he could do that. I knew he wasn't saying I wasn't privileged enough to do it, it was just his pride and joy and he'd like the alone time. I didn't begrudge him. Besides, at this point it was about noon and I knew Gran would be expecting a call from me. I told Eric as much and went back in the house to call her. Eric came inside as well, but he disappeared into his room.

"Hello?" she said, picking up on the third ring. I had hazy memories from last night and remembered how Eric had coached me through talking to her while completely drunk. It was actually the last thing I remembered—being disappointed Eric didn't praise me enough for being able to have a thirty-second conversation on the phone.

"Hey, Gran, it's me. I should be leaving from Amelia's soon," I said.

"Sure, Sookie. Tell me, did you have a fun time last night?"

I didn't have to lie when I answered, "Yeah. It was a lot of fun. I'm really glad I went."

"That's nice. You'll have to tell me all about it when you get home."

"Sure." _Because by then I would have had enough time to think of a cover story._

"Jason's coming over for dinner—we're having friend chicken and biscuits."

"Awesome. Can't wait. Bye, Gran," I said, and hung up.

And then I went back outside and saw that the bar looked pretty clean—the whole house did, actually. There was no longer a reason for me to be there.

"Everything okay?" Eric asked when he spotted me hovering by the screen door.

Even though he had put on a regular red shirt with a couple holes around the neck, he looked good tending bar in daylight too, only if he was just polishing some glasses.

"Yep, she bought it. But, um, I should probably go now…"

"Okay, yeah, cool…" He sounded every bit as awkward as I had.

"I'm going to go get my stuff now," I said and turned back to the house before it could get even weirder. I quickly threw all my things in my bag and made the bed for Eric before walking down the hallway. Eric was waiting for me in the kitchen, absentmindedly flipping through the Sunday newspaper.

"All set?" he asked, walking over to where I was.

"Yep," I said, holding up the bag.

We walked to the front door, and he followed me to my car. I put everything in the back seat on the driver's side and then turned around to say goodbye.

"I had a lot of fun last night," I said, a little awkwardly. Goodbyes were always awkward.

"Yeah, me too. I'll let you know when the next one is so we can be the dream team again, tending bar," he said, taking a step towards me.

He was _just_ going to hug me, I could tell. "Definitely."

He enveloped me in a hug, and though it wasn't as emotional as the last one he gave me, when I thought for a stupid second he was going to kiss me, it was still pretty good.

"Okay then. See you Monday," he said. Monday, because that was when we'd work together next.

I got in the car and he closed the door shut for me, tapping on the window twice when he was done. He didn't move, standing on his driveway in his bare feet watching me pull out. I could still see his figure when I started driving away, and then it turned and walked back into the house.

The drive from Eric's house to mine was long enough that I had a cover story for Gran prepared once I got home—at Amelia's, we all watched a movie and played poker until we lost track of time.

And Gran bought it, which made me feel both grateful and guilty; Jason, on the other hand, kept giving me sneaky looks. I was glad I had showered at Eric's house, or else he totally would have been able to smell the alcohol on me, because Jason certainly was no stranger to partying and hangovers.

"Was Eric there?" he asked innocently, taking a second helping of chicken.

_Asshole._ "No. It was really a girls-only kind of thing," I lied. It felt so wrong doing this with Gran in the room, right next to me, looking at me, _believing me_.

Gran made a kind of disappointing clucking noise with her tongue. "That's a shame. He's such a nice boy."

"Yeah," I said. _Well, this was weird. _

I legitimately hadn't even thought of a graduation party. I hadn't gotten any invitations to any, so it didn't register that high schoolers were supposed to have graduation parties.

"Sookie, dear, you should invite him to your graduation party?"

I nearly snorted milk out my nose. Why had she waited until I was drinking to spring that on me?

"I'm having a graduation party?" I asked instead of why Eric should come to it.

Gran looked surprised. "Don't you want one? I thought it was the thing to do when graduating from high school."

"Yeah, Sook, I had one. Remember?" Jason said from across the table.

_Why yes, Jason, I do remember catching you drunk off your ass on wine coolers with your hand up some blonde cheerleader's shirt. I'd say it's a memory that's pretty hard to forget._

"I know, but … I just hadn't thought of it," I mumbled.

That was true, but only because I didn't know who to invite to it. It was clear I would break Gran's heart if I said that out loud.

I was thankful Jason had the good sense to not say it either, because I could tell by his expression it was definitely what he was thinking. That was probably why he was pushing so hard for this—so there'd be another Stackhouse party with free food and drinks and a girl who always had a crush on him. He didn't care that I didn't particularly want this party.

"Well, I think it would be lovely. It could be a small barbecue here and you could invite your friends from the record store and the families you babysit for and friends from school, and I could invite the ladies from the club and Jason could have Hoyt come over with his mom to grill," Gran said pleasantly.

I legitimately hadn't even thought of a graduation party. I hadn't gotten any invitations to any, so it didn't register that high schoolers were supposed to have graduation parties. I was well aware of when my last day of school was (two more weeks!) and when graduation was (four more weeks!) but those were the only days I constantly thought about in terms of when my high school career would be end. Of course, I was also mindful of the days my AP exams were on next week—my Spanish one was on the same day as prom, which I wasn't going to.

But I could tell tonight wasn't the first time Gran had thought about it. She seemed so excited that I couldn't let her down. I already had to break her heart (although she tried to be very secretive about it) when I told her there was no way I was going to prom. I could at least give her this.

"Okay, yeah. I'll ask Eric … and Amelia and Stan later," I said, biting into my biscuit.

I should have been glad Gran wasn't pushing for me to think of people my own age to invite. But I was closer to Eric and Amelia than anyone in my high school, which was sad when you thought about it because I knew they were closer to other people than to me.

"I'll write them each an invitation," Gran said happily. "Let me be in charge of party planning details, Sookie. You just worry about studying for your AP tests."

Still, for the rest of the meal I made sure there was always something in mouth when Gran started thinking out loud about party dates and the food and decorations we'd need to get, so I could only make a muffled "uh huh" and give her this moment. Because she obviously wanted to give me a party and I was too shy to tell her I really didn't want it, and didn't think it'd be a party the Looney Tunes crowd would be into if there wasn't drinking.

But a daytime barbecue would be better if I had Eric to talk to rather than Mrs. Foytenberry, so I gamely agreed to ask Eric if he was free June 3rd to come to my house for a party.

Lord help us all if he actually was.


	10. First Gift

**A/N: Much love and thanks to you the readers, to chiisai-kitty my beta-reader, and to Charlaine Harris the author of the fuckawesome SVM series that started this whole thing with her characters and stories.**

...

**SPOV**

I felt like I was in the home stretch—I had my last AP exam tomorrow, and after that I could go to school and zone out while watching a movie in every class. I couldn't wait. And then once I graduated, I could be a full-time employee at Looney Tunes, if only for a couple months. After that—college!

It was hard studying for Spanish when I had just gotten my roommate assignment—Tara Thornton, the email said her name was—and was waiting for her to reply to my Facebook friend request and the message I also sent to her. Her Facebook was super private, but I could see her profile picture; she was absolutely gorgeous, with tanned olive skin and long black hair with thick bangs. She "liked" a lot of the same bands I liked, so I was hoping that was a good sign that we'd get along.

But until I had a better glimpse of who she was, I kept looking at my computer screen hoping to see a notification instead of studying my flashcards. Let's be serious—Facebook stalking my soon-to-be roommate was so much easier than studying irregular verbs.

And to make it even _harder_ to study, I got a text message from Eric: "Having a shindig later … we're playing champong in fancy dress. Can you make it?"

Lord, did I want to. I didn't even know what the heck champong was or who was playing it, but I wanted to be there, if it involved Eric. I replied, "Can't :( studying for AP exam tomorrow. What is champong?"

He texted me back maybe a minute later. "Beer pong with champagne in plastic champagne glasses. You would have liked it."

I would have liked it just because I was doing it with him.

"Sounds fun. Maybe next time," I replied instead. I was sure that Eric wouldn't have anything else to reply to that, so I went downstairs for a study snack and watched some TV.

But when I came back, I saw that he had in fact asked, "What test are you studying for?"

Quickly, I typed back, "Spanish."

It took him a little longer than his previous tries to respond, "Only Spanish I know is burrito and nacho. Sorry."

I laughed out loud at his joke before texting, "Right now I feel the same way."

He didn't reply to that, not that I even expected him to. Although secretly I wondered what it would be like to have Eric drunk text me—maybe he would.

But nope, he didn't.

I still hadn't told anyone from Looney Tunes about my graduation party. And I had every opportunity to, since I had requested to take it and my graduation day off and Eric had told Stan and Amelia. And Eric clearly didn't have any problem hanging with me outside of work, since he had tried to get me to come out twice when I couldn't, and I had been to his house before—slept over there, even.

But I was embarrassed that they would come and it'd be awkward since it'd just be my family, the people I babysat for, and friends of Gran and Jason. Eric and Amelia and Stan—they thought I was cool at Looney Tunes and I was shallow enough to want to keep it that way.

But because Gran kept asking about it (under the guise of needing to know how much food to cook, which I saw right through since she always cooked way too much to begin with and besides, a lot of people were bringing dishes) I finally worked up the courage to ask Eric, Amelia, and Stan on a day when we were all working together.

It was about a week until the grad party, and Eric had already fixed the schedule, not putting me on the day of the party like I had asked. And because of my dumb luck, of course none of them were working completely through it—the party was from four to eight, Eric wasn't on schedule that day, and Stan and Amelia were off at five that day.

Surprisingly, everyone said they could come—and even seemed excited about it! Amelia and Stan didn't say anything about bringing their significant others, and I didn't say anything either. Everyone was already working out a carpool when I walked away from the group (with a big smile hidden on my face).

But my good mood didn't last for long—it was an inventory day, something that happened at the end of each term. This was my first one. A bunch of people, both from other stores and headquarters, came to do inventory on the store all day—which was mindless, typing in the product number in some handheld machine thing and organizing sections so they looked somewhat orderly and put together.

Eric and Stan, tricksters that they were, had thought it would be funny if I was in charge of doing the inventory on our porn DVDs first. Which meant I had to go and look at the cover of every single porn video in the store (which, actually, there are a lot of) and then organize them alphabetically and by _category_. Hardy har har. I did it, of course, but whenever I made eye contact with Eric (who was doing inventory in the television DVD section a row over) he'd always snigger and make a comment about what I was doing. It was not amusing to me, though his reaction told me he was the brains behind this plan.

I saw _a lot_ of boobs that day. And when I told that to Eric, he said I was lucky before winking at me, and I punched him the shoulder (which hurt me probably more than him, because _damn_ he had a bony shoulder) and said he should have done the porn section himself then. But I wasn't really mad at him—I couldn't stop smiling every time he made a joke, even though most of the time I did that it was also when I was shaking my head.

It was just another reminder I was the youngest—like, ha ha, let's make the eighteen-year-old girl do the porn section. Of course, I was also pleased Eric had thought of me—that he had planned that for me, just to get a reaction out of me. But I tried my best not to let it show. He didn't do anything like that to the other people.

Still, I was glad I didn't get assigned to the adult sex things section. That would have been too much.

That was a fun Sunday to work—coffee and doughnuts were brought in for breakfast and pizza was for lunch, and everyone talked and joked a lot more than normal because they were tired of standing by themselves in front of merchandise for hours on end.

Since most of the employees had come in today specially just to help out, Stan had one of the people from the Baton Rouge branch take a picture of all of us in front of the cash registers. Looney Tunes had just started ordering all the branches to make a Facebook page for people to "like," and Eric was put in charge of it. The picture of the page was the Looney Tunes logo in orange with our store location written underneath; that was standard, as the New Orleans one was purple and the Baton Rouge one was green.

This was something implemented a week ago, and it already had 300 "likes;" the Facebook page for the Looney Tunes company had 4,000. And Eric wanted to get to 1,000 of his own before the summer ended, so he'd write funny little posts about new merchandise and take pictures of them. Now he wanted a picture of the staff to put up. And because it was Eric, he made it happen.

I wasn't anywhere near Eric when we lined up to take the photo—because I'm a normal height, I was in the front row and he was in the back, on the other side. But still, as soon as he uploaded it onto the page I "liked" it, as did he and a couple other employees.

This was photographic proof of me and Eric together, so I'd be a fool not to. But I was a fool for going back to that picture and looking at it as much as I did once Eric posted it online. And I was a fool for wanting so bad to tag me and Eric in it, so we'd have a friendship picture.

I was going to get more of an Eric fill now that I could work more hours at Looney Tunes. Next week I would be able to start full-time starting Monday, since graduation was Saturday afternoon and my party was Sunday night. I was excited—more excited about that than my actual high school graduation or the party.

To be honest, the day of my graduation party was more stressful than the day of my actual high school graduation. I had a pimple the size of a pencil eraser on my forehead, Jason forgot to mow the lawn so I had to do it and didn't have enough time to get ready for everyone, and—worst of all—I had only just now found the final guest list that Gran had sent the invites to and _she had sent ones to all the girls I used to be friends with before they dumped me_.

Like Ginger Huck, the ringleader. Together with Belinda Blair, we ruled the school back in our freshman and sophomore years. But while Ginger and Belinda had more girl friends, I'd always had more boys swarming around me than the two of them, thanks to Jason's loose reputation (why these guys thought all-around sluttiness was a genetic trait was beyond me) and the double Ds I had developed the summer going into eighth grade. And while Ginger outwardly played nice, I knew she always resented the male attention I had, and when I stopped trying to keep up with them at parties and dances she had been all too happy to leave me behind in the dust.

And while now, in hindsight, I was glad she did it, I hadn't spoken to her one-on-one for two years. Hell, I'd barely spoken to her in classes we ended up taking together.

But knowing there was a chance she might actually come to my party was terrifying. I had thought I had moved on from all of this—that I didn't care anymore, that in a few months I'd be away in New Orleans and totally removed from all this bullshit. But the panic I had felt the moment I saw her name on the list showed I really wasn't over this. That hurt, a lot.

And what was the worst was that I couldn't vent and get mad at Gran, because I knew she hadn't meant anything by it and was only trying to help in that naïve, ignorant grandma kind of way. I would die, absolutely die, if they came and those girls were so mean I wouldn't put it past them to spitefully show up and embarrass the hell out of me.

So I was running around setting out plates of food and silverware and flower centerpieces on various tables all over my yard, and the whole time I was worrying if Ginger would come so I didn't even realize I had left two flowers on one table and two silverware containers on another until Gran pointed it out. She thought I was just nervous for the party and I didn't bother correcting her.

It meant a lot that I was more anxious about the possibility of Ginger coming than the actuality of Eric coming.

But now Gran's friends from the Descendants of the Glorious Dead had arrived, which was my cue to run upstairs and try to make myself presentable, since I was still in the bikini top and cut off shorts that I'd worn to cut the lawn a couple hours ago. There wasn't enough time for my hair to dry, so I showered with my hair in a plastic bag (since I was under eighty and didn't have a spare shower cap or five lying around) and quickly put on the plain white strapless dress that I had worn under my gown at graduation. I straightened my hair and only had time to put on color on my lips and cheeks before Gran started calling for me, but since I had gotten some color from tanning these past couple days I thought I could pull it off.

I thought Gran was optimistic when she set up a "gifts" table, but now I could see she was actually being realistic. Everyone who came brought an envelope or bag or present for me and I was touched by their thoughtfulness, especially because most of them were only here because of Gran. But everyone was very excited that I was going to such a prestigious university on a big scholarship, and that was pretty much all I talked about.

So far neither Eric (plus the Looney Tunes gang) nor Ginger had showed up. I was glad Ginger wasn't here, but felt a little miffed that Eric and the others hadn't come yet and it was already 5:45. I mean, I thought they would have been here by now.

After all, I had gone to their parties and bar outings and, in Amelia's case, that open mic night three days ago at a coffee shop where she read her Pam-inspired lesbian poetry (never again). I would have thought they'd do the same for me for my dinky little backyard barbecue.

And they finally did, around six. I was in the kitchen getting more plastic silverware when I saw Eric's car pull into the driveway, and I walked out onto the front porch to watch it come towards me.

Now that they were all here, it was actually happening. I thought for sure it'd be so awkward, both for them and for me. They didn't know anyone at this party, yet they had driven all the way out here for me. I was both pleased and scared by that, and really didn't want it to blow up in their faces.

"Hey graduation girl!" Amelia said, exiting first from the car. She was sitting in the back seat, with Stan in the passenger side and Eric behind the wheel, of course.

"Hey, thanks for coming," I said once they were close enough I wouldn't have to yell. One by one they bounded up the stairs and hugged me hello while congratulating me as I tried my best not to stab them.

Eric was last, of course. Amelia and Stan had already wandered away at that point, so it felt like just the two of us out there. I took his light blue v-neck, flip flops, and cargo shorts in, noticing this was the first time I saw Eric's legs, which were thin and muscular with light fuzz and bony knees.

"Congratulations, Sookie," he said, taking me into a hug. He rubbed two big circles into my back with his hand before breaking the hug. "We got you something," he continued, handing me a large manila envelope with my name on it.

"Awh, thanks," I said to him. His hair, which had grown out so much that it could be brought back into a little pony tail with an index finger-sized amount of hair coming out, was now loose and flowing, partially obscuring his face from me.

He looked even more like a rock star now. And when he smiled down at me, like he was now, he looked like a movie star.

After a moment, I turned around to thank Stan and Amelia as well.

"Of course, Sookie. And can I just say, your house is beautiful," Amelia said, looking all around the porch. Her long red and gold boho skirt swayed as she walked to either side.

"Want a tour?" I asked, opening the door. They followed behind, and I walked them through the house, stopping at all the rooms and giving a little background on them, like how the living room was built in the 1800s. Amelia was getting really into it, and even Stan and Eric didn't look completely bored (not that I would have blamed them).

I didn't take them upstairs, to my bedroom.

Everyone was outside on the back porch and the lawn, so that was where I brought them. I introduced everyone to Gran, who was delighted to meet Stan and Amelia and also see Eric again.

For the first couple minutes I didn't leave their group. I was scared it would be awkward for them. But then Gran absolutely insisted that I go refill the pitcher of sweet tea in the kitchen, and after throwing apologetic glances their way I left my friends and went to go do that, as quickly as possible.

When I dashed back on the porch, I saw I was being stupid. Stan and Eric were talking animatedly to Jason, and Amelia was over at the food table talking to Caroline Bellefleur, the town's society matron, about gardening. Who'd have thunk? Turns out they didn't need me after all.

The party went off without any problems, much to my surprise. I was scared that Eric's long hair and Stan's full sleeve tattoos on his arms (which were displayed under the black polo he was wearing) and the stray tats on his legs (which were displayed under his jean cutoffs) would have gathered disproving looks from the old guard. But I was wrong—everyone was getting along just fine.

Everyone was having fun for the most part—Jason was sniffing around Amelia, chatting her up, and Stan was talking to Mr. Moldor, the owner of the hardware store, about manager tips. In fact, the only questionable pairing was when I caught Mrs. Fortenberry cornering Eric into a corner and talking about how she always had a thing for guitarists. Eric had seen me over her (very flabby) shoulder and was throwing me pleading glances, so I came to his rescue and said I needed him for a minute but would bring him right back, which of course I never did.

"Thanks for that," he said as soon as we were out of earshot. And by that, we had to go into the house because Mrs. Fortenberry had been not-so-discreetly following us and trying to listen to what we were saying. It was beyond creepy.

"I'm so sorry, Eric," I apologized for her. Now we were alone in the living room, since everyone else was outside or in the kitchen and I didn't know where else to bring him.

"I like how your house has all these family pictures and heirlooms," he said to break the silence, striding over to the fireplace to look at the pictures Gran had collected over the years and placed there. The pictures ranged from her great-grandmother's wedding portrait to my senior picture, which was placed on the mantle back in November.

I thought it was interested he had chosen to compliment that, since he didn't have any family pictures in his house (or even any pictures, for that matter). But instead I thanked him and walked over to where he was standing, perfectly content to stand at his side and recite the stories behind each of the photographs that Grad had instilled in my brain practically at birth. Eric was fascinated by the Stackhouse history, and couldn't believe that we were in a room that hundreds of people had stood in before.

When he was finished at the fireplace, I told him he should see the pictures on the stairs, which were more recent and of people I had actually met. These pictures were only of Stackhouses dating back to my Gran and my grandfather, who had died when I was tiny. Eric studied these too, walking all the way up the stairs just so he could see Jason's third grade picture when he didn't have any front teeth.

Once up there, he looked around, taking in the second floor. "Which one is your room?" he asked.

"Oh, uh, it's the door to the left," I said, scurrying past him up the stairs so I'd have time to take a peek and make sure I didn't have any embarrassing bras or underwear on the floor before I showed him my room. Thankfully I didn't, because Eric had followed me hot on my heels and there wouldn't have been enough time to swipe them.

"So this is your bedroom," he remarked, stepping inside and looking around.

My bedroom wasn't anything fancy. It was really small and had this flower wallpaper I hated but never changed because I was going to college and it wasn't worth the money. I had taken down all the decorations in preparation for packing to college, since it was less than two months away, so the walls looked really bare. The bed had a homemade quilt on it, and other than that there was just my dresser, nightstand, and desk and the little knickknacks on them.

But Eric seemed to like it. He went and looked out all the windows to see what my views were—I was on the side of the house overlooking the cemetery and the woods around them—and seemed much more comfortable in my room right now than I was.

"You know, I thought for sure your walls would be covered in posters or pictures," he said, and I fought the urge to tell him I had thought the same when I first saw his room.

"I already packed up the posters for college, and there really weren't that many to begin with," I explained.

Eric turned around to look at me from where he was standing from across the room. "And the pictures? I thought all girls put up pictures from prom and senior year. Even in my senior year of college I knew girls whose walls were covered in snapshots of their prom."

I shifted my weight from where I was leaning against the door frame. "There aren't any. I wasn't being a drama queen when I told Amelia I didn't have that many friends in high school, and I didn't go to any proms ever," I said awkwardly.

He walked over to the area where I was in. "I wasn't saying you were a drama queen, Sookie. It's just, I thought given your family traditions you would have had some pictures in here, even of just family members."

"Oh." I felt like a defensive idiot.

"But since you mentioned it, I do find it surprising that you don't have pictures of friends up. You're probably one of the most generous, nice, just all-around good-hearted people I know."

He peered at me from where he was standing and I blushed under his gaze. "Thanks … I think. It's just that … I used to be popular, as an underclassman, and was very cliquey. I said things I shouldn't have said and done things I shouldn't have done with people I shouldn't have hung out with. And when I realized that, I had kind of dug myself into a hole, so even the fake friends I had made didn't want to be near me and I'd been too mean to others to make them change their mind. So … yeah."

After looking at me some time, Eric nodded a couple times. "Nice digs," he said when he was finished, and brushed past me to walk out the room. I thanked him as he walked by and went downstairs behind him, wondering with every step what the hell just happened.

Everyone had a good time at my party, which ended up being really chill and relaxed so everyone could just gel with each other. There was even a game of volleyball going on thanks to the net I had set up yesterday, and everyone played—even Gran and her friends, once they made sure they were all on Eric's team since he was the tallest person here. But even with the head start, my team won, thanks to Jason and Stan's teamwork which seemed to surprise everyone.

I couldn't have picked a better party.

But then it started getting late and the women started fussing with cleanup, so people started going. My cheeks started hurting from smiling at everyone as I hugged them and thanked them and bade them goodnight. Amelia, Stan, and Eric were one of the firsts to leave, and they all joked about how I was growing up, with Amelia and Stan being more vocal about it than Eric. Not that I paid attention or anything.

But Eric spoke up when he was the last to say goodnight. "I'm really glad you shared everything with me. I'm glad to be your friend," he said quietly as he hugged me.

"Thanks," I said, ducking my head.

"See you tomorrow, summer Sookie?" he asked. Tomorrow morning was my first time working as a fulltime employee, and I'd be starting Monday morning, which I had never worked before. Since I could work pretty much any day and any time at Looney Tunes, Eric, as the scheduler, was very happy about that.

"Of course!" I said. "See you then."

But when I did, things got real awkward real fast. Not ten minutes after Eric was on the clock (I had opened the store with Chow, and Eric didn't come in until one for his shift) who would walk in but Ginger Huck?

She was alone, surprisingly. And she didn't look over at the counters when she first strolled in wearing her inappropriately short mini skirt and tight tube top, or else she would have seen my gaping, bright red face.

But Eric noticed, because he's Eric and he always does.

"You okay, Sookie?" he asked. He was the other person at the counters, and he was on the other side putting a Thin Lizzy CD in the stereo. But if he could see I was freaking out all the way over there, then I knew it was a good thing Ginger hadn't seen me when she came in.

When I didn't reply, he came and stood next to me, a hand at my elbow. "Did you put on something else of Amelia's? Toxic mascara or blush, maybe?" he joked, but I could tell he was kind of serious.

His warm touch jolted me out of it. "No … um, I'm fine."

"Sookie, don't lie to me," he chided. "What's up?"

What was up was that I wanted to go run and hide in the backroom or the ladies' room (or, hell, even the men's room). But I knew Eric wouldn't let me do that. Eric wouldn't want me to do that.

"Do you see that girl with the bleached blonde hair?" I whispered, pointing to Ginger as she looked over the t-shirt collection.

"Uh, yeah. It'd be hard not to," he retorted, making a face as he took in her appearance. I liked him so, so much in that instant.

"That's Ginger. She used to be one of my best friends, when I was a freshman," I said, giving him a knowing look.

He got it. "Oh. _Oh._ Wow, really, Sookie?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"Huh," he said, and scratched his tattoo. "You okay?"

"Yeah, it's nothing." I didn't tell him I was surprised she'd come to a place that was hip as Looney Tunes. It's not like we were in a mall and she wandered in.

But then more customers appeared and I helped them, grateful for the distraction. That was, of course, until I picked my head up and saw that Ginger was next in line.

"I didn't know you worked here" she said casually as she dumped all her purchases—little boxes of figurines and bobble heads—onto the counter for me to ring up.

I wanted to say of course she didn't because she hadn't talked to me in two years, but I found myself mumbling about how I started working here in March, hating myself the whole damn time.

"Sorry I couldn't make it to your graduation party," she said insincerely, inspecting her nails as I rang up her purchases. "And even though I haven't wanted to hung out with you in a while, it was really, um, charitable of you—or your Gran?—to invite me."

I don't know what, but something deep down inside me just SNAPPED when I heard her fake plastic voice oozing into my ears. Maybe I was feeling empowered knowing I would probably never see her again, or maybe being inside Looney Tunes just made me feel better about myself, because I can't think of any other reasons why good-girl Sookie would just stand there and let, I don't know, badass Sookie come out to play.

"Listen, Ginger, we can stand here and make small talk all day, but the only thing we have in common is the past and quite frankly, that's not enough to make me want to do social niceties with you. I'm done with you and all your stupid little minions and your whispers and mind games. And honestly, my life has been so much better since you've gotten out of it that I'd like to keep it that way." I stopped and smiled sweetly at her. "Your total is $24.37."

Ginger stared at me open-mouthed, shocked to the core over what I'd just said to her. She'd been in the middle of getting money out of her purse when I'd started talking to her, and she had stopped to gape at me. Instead of handing me the money, she leaned over and pushed all of her purchases over the counter at me with such a force that they rocketed to the ground.

"You're such a bitch," she snottily told me before she started stomping towards the exit.

"Really? _You're_ calling _me_ a bitch?" I asked. Ginger continued her walk of shame, but now she put her hand up so she was giving me the finger the whole time. All of the nearby customers were watching this, their eyes bouncing between the two of us like ping pongs balls at a Chinese national tennis table team's Olympic game.

"Have a nice life," I called out once she opened the door to leave. She turned around and gave me a look of pure hatred before walking outside and out of my life.

I closed my eyes and exhaled for a second before bending down to start picking up her stuff. Of course she'd chosen to buy so many different boxes of little mini-figures.

I saw big hands close around a tiny box, and I knew it was Eric. I'd forgotten he was at the cash registers with me, and even though he had been at the opposite end of the counter when Ginger came up I knew of course that he'd heard everything.

"I'll pay for it," I mumbled.

He moved his hand to put it on top of mine. I was scared I might start crying, so I kept my eyes on the floor instead of looking up at Eric.

But he wasn't having any of that. He used his other hand to cup my chin and gently force me to look at him. His face was inches away from mine, and I don't think it was the nearness that made his eyes look so big and blue and comforting.

"No you won't," he said gruffly. I started to protest but he shook his head at me. "It was only twenty bucks, and even if it was 2,000 bucks I wouldn't let you cover it. What you did to her was priceless. I mean, how awesome do you feel right now?"

I smiled despite myself. He was right—always was. "Pretty fucking awesome."

It was true, but that didn't mean there weren't tears starting to form in my eyes. I blinked a lot, willing them to stay contained. I was sure Eric could see them since he was so close to my face.

"Don't worry, I won't write 'bitch' on the list of names customers call you," Eric joked after a moment.

"Ha ha. I, um, have to go to the bathroom," I mumbled, scurrying out from under his gaze.

I was surprised he'd let me go.

…

**EPOV**

So despite her best efforts to hide it, I was pretty sure Sookie was crying.

Sookie, who took it in spades whenever a crabby customer complained to her about something stupid—to the point where we assholes actually sent her to deal with our most demanding customers because somehow she was always able to make it better.

Sookie, who I had seen bravely smile every time a creepy old man called her a name without snapping once and telling them off.

Sookie, who had stared right in the face of Hurricane Pam and came out unscathed.

Sookie, whose parents died when she was just a kid and whose Gran didn't get her and whose only sibling, an older brother, barely gave two fucks about her.

_Sookie was crying. _

And she was doing it after she did this awesomely badass thing where she completely bitched out the cunt that had made her life hell in high school. But_ Sookie_ was the one in tears!

I was so shocked by what just happened that I didn't know what to do. _What just happened?_

When she came back, minutes later, I couldn't see any evidence that she'd been crying: her eyes weren't red and her nose wasn't sniffly and her voice didn't sound scratchy when I asked if she was okay and she brightly replied that she was fine.

She really seemed like she didn't want to talk about it and to be honest, I was a little scared she'd bite my head off if I asked her if she wanted to. So I just followed her lead and went on pretending like Sookie, the nicest girl on earth, the most perfect of all Southern belles, didn't just verbally annihilate this girl who, admittedly, kind of deserved it.

But I couldn't stop thinking about what had happened long after it actually did happen.

When she spoke to me about her past at her party, Sookie had made it seem like she was a _Mean Girls_ mean girl when she was an underclassman in high school, and that she stopped when she realized what she was doing and acting like was wrong. And while I was glad that happened, obviously, since it had made Sookie who she was today—I couldn't help but wonder if there was some kind of catalyst that jump-started her light bulb moment.

What would have happened to make her change so completely, to seek new friends or at least get away from her old ones? What singular act would be so big to completely change her life, for better and maybe even for worse?

It didn't escape me that Sookie had never mentioned that Bill guy to me, either today or at her graduation party. Something in my gut told me this guy was definitely was involved in this, whoever he was. But how? And why?

Come to think of it, no one had ever mentioned it. Not Adele or Jason when I was at Sookie's house for her graduation party. I mean, it's not like I asked them point-blank, but when Adele said something about how Sookie looked so radiant in her white dress (which she did, don't get me wrong) and I replied something about how she must have driven all the boys wild in high school, she just smiled at me and patted my hand affectionately. And when I said something similar to Jason, he just kind of shrugged and said since he lived in his own house he didn't really see Sookie a lot, and when he did it was here, at his Gran's house.

Neither of the Stackhouses had even remarked on the relatively small amount of teenagers at the party like Amelia and Stan had, to which I just shrugged and said, "Yeah, huh," without revealing Sookie's past.

It was like Jason and Adele were used to it—that it was normal for them that Sookie didn't have close friends, and that she would host a graduation party where the last time over 80% of the attendees had gone to high school was to some sort of a reunion and most of the rest were too young to have graduated from high school.

It made me think that Sookie didn't come up with the idea to have a party, that someone—probably Adele—did everything and Sookie just went along with it to please everyone.

And I had a blast at Sookie's party despite this. I liked seeing where Sookie came from, who shaped her for better (Adele) or for worse (Jason, but I thought he only made her want to be the anti-Jason).

I also liked that she thought to invite me—us. At first, I thought it was just so she'd have people to talk to who were her own age, because I was surprised to see all that gray or fake red hair when I first got to the party. But Sookie flitted around joking and talking to everyone, so I knew it wasn't that. Maybe it was because she just wanted us to be there, to see us outside of work, to celebrate her graduation. That was okay.

I was glad Amelia and Stan had also agreed to go when she approached us. I probably would have gone to Sookie's graduation party if it were just me—probably. I mean, I was the one who came up with Sookie's present—a printed-out map of Tulane's campus with gift cards attached to places like Starbucks and Barnes & Noble and Target and the New Orleans Looney Tunes—but I was also the one who let Amelia put it all together.

Sookie's graduation made me feel funny. On one hand it was like, great, she was no longer in high school and now she's so grown up! But then it was like, I only think she's so grown up because I know she's not in high school anymore, and that still makes her super young.

And of course her high school graduation only drove in the fact that soon she'd be off to college.

That made me realize how little time Sookie had left here. I wasn't done with her yet. Sure, seeing her room had answered some secret burning questions I had, but being around the people who were closest to her—or, in Ginger's case, had been closest to her—just made me burn with even more secret questions.

Even just having confirmation of Sookie's bully/bullied days was enough to make me want to hold her to my chest, in something that was motivated by equal parts of protecting her and having her close to me.

I wished I could say it was because I was her friend or a great boss that I thought these things. But that was a lie, even if I couldn't admit it to myself. And if I couldn't admit it to myself, then I definitely couldn't admit it to Sookie.

I wouldn't though. She was only here for less than two months and then she'd be off at college. So even if I did instigate something, it'd only be for such a little amount of time. And what if something happened and I completely broke our friendship that we'd built up over the months? I really valued what we had now—it was something I cherished a lot.

And if, in an ideal world, Sookie would be okay with being more than friends with me? Then what? Would she be able to handle it? Would _I _be able to handle it?

Bill or no Bill, I got the impression that Sookie was inexperienced when it came to guys and relationships, and even if she did want me it wouldn't be good for her to have something with me for a matter of weeks and then have it end all too abruptly. Never mind that it wouldn't be good for me either.

And even though I had people telling me to go for it, even though I sometimes had these crazy moments where I thought that Sookie might like me and maybe would be okay with being more than a friend, I didn't do anything. I forced myself to let our great relationship stay deep in the friend zone, because things would work out better that way—for her.

I was never any good at gambling.


	11. First Kiss

**A/N: Those of you who reviewed know this is a BIG chapter from my reply (or if you've looked at the name of this chapter because, hey, it's pretty obvious). But this chapter is really one of the big reasons why I started Sookie's back story, which will be revealed after I thank my beta chiisai-kitty (thanks grrl!) and you, the readers, for loving this story as much as I do.**

**...**

**SPOV**

It was the beginning of August, a week before my official last day, and it was ten minutes to closing time with no customers in the store. Chow had left about an hour ago to play a gig with his band, so it was just me and Eric on the second-to-last time we would work together. I was counting the money in the cash registers and Eric was in the back room opening the safe.

This was the routine, now, since my being a fulltime worker for the summer months had given me certain benefits (and certain pay raises, and even if it was for two months I appreciated it because I was working a lot of hours), and counting the daily profits was one of them.

At first, I'd been scared whenever I had to count the money, mostly because I didn't want to make obvious mistakes once the numbers were compared. At first, I was really self-conscious when Eric was standing right next to me, close enough for me to feel like he was watching me over my shoulder even though I knew he wasn't, and wouldn't. But over time I had gotten over my fears, and now it was totally not a big deal

Unfortunately, working at Looney Tunes was not that much of a big deal either. Of course I still got the jitters around Eric and I always liked the shifts where I worked with him, and also Amelia, but I was ready to leave and go to New Orleans and start over.

But this was the second-to-last time Eric and I were working together, so it was kind of special to me. I was all ready to ask if he wanted to go out for a drink later, since last week Jason's latest girlfriend, a pretty blonde named Crystal, had kindly given me her cousin's license as a going-to-college present—because even though her cousin recently overdosed on drugs, she was twenty-two and looked like me, and Crystal had thought to give me her license to use as my fake.

Creepy for sure, but I appreciated the gesture. Because it meant I wouldn't have to have Eric order my drinks like he had that one other time we went to a bar. I hadn't ever used the ID yet, but I kept it in my wallet behind the little piece of paper saying who and where to return the wallet to if lost. But tonight it was coming out to play.

As I thought about different ways I could ask Eric, a youngish guy, maybe Eric's age, with black hair and black eyes entered through the doors. As I smiled politely at him, I rudely thought that he better not be here in ten minutes so we could close.

He didn't seem to notice because he was too busy scoping out the area, looking at the displays. He seemed jittery, almost—he kept putting his hands in the front pocket of his large black hoodie and then taking them out soon. Maybe he was high on something.

"Hey, I don't mean to be that person, but please keep in mind that we close in ten minutes," I politely told him when he started walking towards the back of the store. He was wearing red swishy track pants that made noises when he moved.

He turned around, eyes almost too wide, and smiled a little too big at me. "Don't worry. I know what I'm getting."

"Okay, great," I replied brightly. But I was very glad when he moved towards the back of the store. In all honesty, I just wanted him to buy something and leave so it'd just be me and Eric and I could ask him.

After turning the music off—a passive-aggressive move we always did when there was a customer in the store and we wanted to close—I started recounting all of the twenties, since my mini conversation with him had made me lose count. It wasn't until I moved on to the ten dollar bills that I registered that someone was nearby and looked up to see that guy walking towards me.

I smiled at him—but not when he took a small handgun out of his pocket and pointed it at me as he approached the counter.

Thinking quickly, since my hands were already on the table, I pressed the intercom button located underneath it that would connect to the back office, and I did it immediately before he ordered me to put my hands up, which I then did. Quickly.

I could only hope Eric would have the good sense to keep quiet as soon as he heard a man order "Put your hands up where I can see them!" through the intercom speakers. The way I saw it, Eric could call the police, and if this guy didn't shoot me, I might be able to get out of this alive.

"Put all the money in a shopping bag. Now," he gruffly demanded, using his free hand to point to the piles of bills on the counter.

"What are you even doing here? It's a local record store. I mean, there's a bank down the street. Why couldn't you rob that?" I asked, loudly for Eric's benefit, as I slowly scooped up the bills, starting with the hundreds.

I had no idea where this Sassy Sookie was coming from. After all, here I was telling the guy with the gun that it'd be better for him if he robbed a nearby bank. Chalk this up for a point to make in the debate of whether or not violence was good in movies and TV— maybe it was too many _Law and Order_ reruns or something, but I wasn't freaking out. Yet.

I knew why—it was because I knew Eric could and would help me, hopefully soon. I trusted him and had so much faith in him I just knew he would step in and save the day, like he always did (but not quite to this degree).

I mean, I couldn't have gotten any clearer with my message, right? And with a quick glance down, as fast as a blink, I saw the red light of the intercom shining underneath the counter. It was on. There was no reason Eric could not hear me—although, shit, the intercom was rarely used, and maybe it had run out of batteries?

To my surprise, the gun guy barked out a laugh, pulling me out of my head and into my life where, hey, there was a gun pointed at me. "Yeah, but that wouldn't be as fun, would it? Especially with you here, all alone," he said, grinning as he leered at me.

That's why he took a turn about the store before holding me up—he was looking for an employee. He thought I was alone, because I guessed Eric had closed the door to the backroom. So we had the element of surprise going for us then, right? Right?

And not that I was an expert on robberies or anything, but this guy seemed almost too human to be pointing a gun at my face. Maybe it was because he wasn't wearing a ski mask, and I could see all his emotions and expressions play out on his extremely young face. Or maybe it was because he was smiling and laughing and even joking (about possibly raping me? Don't you dare even _think_ about that, Sookie Stackhouse) as he robbed the store.

It was almost a bad thing, his easiness, because it made me not realize the gravity of the situation.

"Now would be a good time to still be suicidal," I muttered suddenly, thinking I should try to make my attacker pity me, because maybe if I could distract him or make him see me as a teenage girl and not a target I would have a greater chance at staying alive and stopping this robbery.

He was clearly taken aback as he blurted, "What?"

"I said I wish I was still suicidal," I said more clearly. "Isn't life ironic?"

The gun guy had his eyes on me instead of the money for the first time since he showed his gun. "That's bull shit. How can a hot chick like you want to kill yourself? You probably have a perfect little life," he speculated, still staring at me.

I laughed, and it sounded hollow to me. Now I could go through with my plan. Of course the first time I told someone about my past suicidal tendencies and the reasons for them he would be holding a gun at me.

I took a deep breath. I didn't even care if Eric was still listening on the intercom and could hear me. I was sure that if I told gun guy my story, he'd be distracted. And the police would probably be here soon, because all of the money from the cash register I'd been working on was now put in the bag—even the change, because I didn't want to take any chances and he didn't tell me not too—and I'd moved on to the next one, so it had been some time. There were four more to take from after that.

"About two years ago, I was raped by this guy at a party," I said, my voice shaking. "His name was Bill, and he was two grades older than me and was popular and had kissed me at the last party playing spin-the-bottle and, what's more, I knew my best friend Ginger thought he was cute and I was glad he was paying attention to me instead of her. So when he got me a drink and suggested that we go outside and have some fresh air I agreed because, hey, I was kinda drunk and I knew him."

I looked at this guy while I was talking, and he was definitely interested. Oh my god! Because gun guy nodded in response. He cared. He was listening. He was paying attention to me instead of the money. Maybe my plan was working after all.

I continued, "It was nice for a few minutes, when we walked into the woods behind the house. But then he cornered me in the bushes, hiked my dress up, and took me right then and there, with a hand clamped over my mouth so no one would hear my screams. The whole time he was doing it he was silent, except for when he laughed when I tried biting his hand to stop him or when I tried to push him off. It was almost like he thought it was amusing, raping someone. Once he finished, he just walked away. Didn't say anything. Didn't do anything. Just took off the condom, tucked himself in, and left me there with tree branch cuts on my back and bruises on my arm and tears streaming down my face. I passed out soon afterwards and woke up there the next morning with my underwear around my knees. No one came looking for me. No one had noticed I was gone."

The robber watched me as I took bills out of their slots in the second cash register, but most of the time his eyes were on my face, not my hands.

So I continued, "When I confronted Bill, he laughed and said we were both drunk and it didn't matter, but if I told anyone he'd take his dad's shotgun and kill me. I was so scared, because if he was cruel enough to rape a girl he might just kill me. I tried to tell my friends about what Bill did to me but they wouldn't have any of it. Ginger even said I was lucky to have had sex with him for my first time. Since then I stopped going to parties and then I stopped being social. I stopped hanging out with that whole group and they didn't even care."

My voice was shaking as I added, "My Gran just thought I was studying to get my grades up to win a scholarship, and that was why I wasn't going out all the time. But I wasn't studying. I was locked up in my room sobbing and moping around in bed. And one time I got so sick of myself I decided I would kill myself and went to get my Gran's shotgun."

"Why didn't you?"

I couldn't believe it! He was actually paying attention. He had even lowered his gun so that it was resting casually on the counter, like he was waiting on me or something.

I stared at the gun on the table, calculating if I could reach it, but if I tried to grab it he'd beat me to it, because he could lift it up faster than I could get at it.

Looking back at the robber, I answered, "Well, I was holding the gun. And I started thinking about why I wanted to kill myself, which was because I couldn't move on from what Bill had done to me. And then I realized that I was going to kill myself just because of him, and that was stupid. You know that phrase, 'I don't give a damn?'"

"Yeah, I've heard it before." He shrugged his shoulders, but his hands were still on the table. "So?"

Suddenly I saw the top of Eric's beanie peeking out from behind the nearest CD rack, and then I saw him stand up and quietly, very quietly, tiptoe towards the guy. He was carrying a fire extinguisher like it was a baseball bat and there was a determined expression on his face.

I turned my attention to the gun guy but I could still see Eric. What Eric was going to do was probably the stupidest thing ever, but there was no way I could tell him to stop without alerting the robber to Eric's intrusion.

I had a fleeting thought that Eric was wearing the same beanie he was the day I first met him, which was fitting. _Fitting? What the fucking fuck, Sookie? There's a gun being pointed at you and all you can do is think about the significance behind Eric's accessories? Really?_

When Eric saw me see him, he slowly nodded at me to continue my distraction. I wondered how long he'd been waiting there and whether or not he could hear me. Probably, since the music was off.

"Well, it was like not giving a damn was still giving too much. You know what I mean?" I said to the gun guy. "Bill shouldn't have had that much power and control over my life, especially after what he did. And I could prove that he didn't have that much power and control over my life if I didn't kill myself and tried to move on. It's hard though, because–"

Just then, as I was talking, Eric suddenly ran and hit the guy on the back of the head with the fire extinguisher. It all happened so fast I could barely make sense of it, but right before Eric had hit the guy's head the robber had whipped around to face him while reaching for the gun.

A bullet shot out of the gun and it hit the window, shattering the glass behind me. Luckily, I wasn't standing in front of the guy or the window, but I still screamed at the noise and ducked.

Now was when Sassy Sookie disappeared off into whatever alternate universe she mysteriously came from, leaving only a very Scared Sookie in her place as an inadequate substitute.

I heard a big thunk from the extinguisher hitting something, and then I heard the sound of the gun being picked off the counter. Paralyzed with fear, I closed my eyes shut, thinking it was the guy and he was going to kill me.

"Sookie, are you okay?" Eric yelled a moment later.

I could hear that he was close, and when my eyes popped open, and I saw Eric. Well, I saw his back, which was to me, but he was standing up and I could tell from his body position he was holding the gun and pointing it towards the floor.

As I took all this in, I had forgotten that Eric had asked me a question. But he asked it again, sounding rougher and more urgent this time: "Sookie, I said, are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"Yeah, sure, but Eric, what about you?" I called out a moment later. My voice was shakier than I would have thought, and it worried me how light and airy it sounded.

He brushed my concern off. "Were you hit? Did you get any glass on you? Get up so I can see you."

I shakily stood up, feeling like Bambi on ice, and I could see Eric assessing me, making sure I wasn't damaged. Since he was still looking over his shoulder at me, I could tell that the one blue eye I could see of his was bugged out, like he had crazy eyes.

Surprisingly, no, I wasn't bleeding. But based on the amount of glass at my feet, I should have been. "No, I'm fine too," I called out. After thinking about it, I squeaked, "And, uh, what about gun guy?"

"He's not moving—his blood is staining the carpet, in fact. I hit him on the side of the head with the fire extinguisher, so he should be out for a while, I think." Eric answered shakily. "There's a lot of blood."

I took the few steps I needed to the counter. I leaned over to see that Eric was right, the guy was knocked out and there was a lot of blood. Almost too much blood, but none of it was Eric's so I didn't care. Eric must have hit him pretty hard.

"I don't think I killed him," Eric whispered, turning all the way around to face me, and it was then that I saw the fear on his face, the same fear that caused his color to become ashen and his hands to shake.

That's when I realized what situation was, or rather, how badly it could have gone. I couldn't stand the sight of blood—or the taste or smell of it either. And there was blood _everywhere_—on the guy, on Eric, on the rug, on the counter, on the display case.

"What were you _thinking_?" I shrieked "You could have got shot!"

"So? You could have too, with your gabfest!" he protested defensively.

His face was snarled for a few awful seconds, but then the fight went out of him as he added, in a much calmer voice, "Anyway, it doesn't matter. The police are on their way, and they can take care of this. The important thing is, we're both okay."

When I didn't reply, he looked over his shoulder at me again. "Sookie, listen to me. All right? Just listen to me. Everything is going to be fine, dear one, okay?"

_Wait a second—he called me "dear one." Eric fucking Northman just called me "dear one?" He was calling me a—pet name? _

I wanted to melt at that realization…and then I wanted to throw up because I just felt so happy about it.

_Of course the first time he actually calls me a term of endearment is when he's covered in blood and is pointing a gun at a guy's forehead. Of course all I can think about is that he called me something nice when there's blood everywhere and we almost got shot. You're such a fucking idiot, Sookie. You could have died tonight and all you can think about is how just Eric called you "dear one."_

I wanted to come around the counter and just wrap myself in a big old Eric hug until the police came, but he probably wouldn't have liked that because he was guarding the gun guy. Instead I backed up and sat propped up against the wall with my hands clasped around my knees.

I feebly nodded. Then I realized that he probably couldn't see me, so I shakily called out, "Okay."

By this time, we could both hear the sirens, and I looked out the window to see a bunch of police cars and ambulances stop in our parking lot.

The cops slowly approached the door, but once they saw Eric pointing the gun at the guy on the floor they came running. There were so many of them, with so many guns. Most of them circled the robber and I could hear a few talking to Eric, asking him questions and stuff. One cop came over to me, asking me things I couldn't pay attention to. He looked like a cross between Brad Pitt and Jason.

Jason. This whole time I didn't think about Jason. I didn't think about Jason or Gran or my life. I didn't see my life flash past my eyes. I didn't think about how I was going to die. All I thought about was Eric, and what he was doing and what he was going to do and whether he was going to live.

"Sookie?" Eric asked, and I looked up to find that he and four other cops were staring at me. "The officer was asking if you are okay," he explained, reaching for my hand on the counter. He had apparently given the gun to an officer while I was zoning out.

"What? Yeah. Sorry. I'm fine. Just a little shook up, that's all," I replied.

Eric squeezed my hand and let go of it to walk around the counter to give me the biggest hug I'd ever received. He picked me up, true bear-hug style, and squeezed me so hard I thought I was going to pop. His face was buried in my hair and my neck, and I could feel his eyelashes on my skin, and maybe his lips—or was that just his skin, sweaty and hot?

When he put me down but still didn't release me, I placed my head on his chest and closed my eyes.

"Let's get some water, huh?" he asked when he finally let go. By this time ambulance people had come in the store and were now putting the guy's body on a stretcher—I guessed he was still alive if they were bringing him to the hospital.

I also guessed I must have been hugging Eric for a long time.

He put his arm around me, and I put my arm around his waist, which I was certain was smaller and bonier than mine. We were so pressed up against each other that it made walking feel like we were in a three-legged race, but neither of us let go. I thought Eric would lead us to the back room, but instead we walked over towards the Coca-Cola glass refrigerator where there were bottles of soda and juice and water for sale. He let go of me to bend down for a second, and then he handed me a bottle of water and took one for himself.

Eric noticed my stare—_we were just going to take water that you were supposed to buy?_—and chuckled. "I think we earned it, don't you?"

He was right. Why was I freaking out about taking a two dollar bottle of water when not five minutes ago a gun was pointed at me?

"In that case, I'm taking a chocolate bar too," I told him, and he laughed.

"Me too." His arm slipped around my shoulder, and we resumed our position as the three-legged person.

Thankfully the cops weren't in front of the British chocolate section of the candy counter, so we were able to pick up one candy each. It reminded me of how in Harry Potter, Professor Lupin gave chocolate to Harry after he passed out from the dementor on the train and said chocolate would make him feel better. It certainly made me feel better.

The cops asked us a lot of questions—first together, and then separately. Eric praised me for my quick thinking using the intercom to the back room, and the police did the same. But when they asked what I'd been saying to distract Paul Neiderman (or who I'd always think of as gun guy), I told them I was pleading for him not to take the money.

"That was some quick thinking you did there, with the fire extinguisher," I complimented Eric once we were alone. "You saved me."

"_You _were the one who did the quick thinking! Especially with the intercom. I mean, no one ever uses it—it took me a while to realize that you weren't at the door talking to me and you were actually still at the counter talking to the gunman," he replied, shaking his head. "If you hadn't done that, I would have ignorantly walked right into that."

"But instead you charged in with a fire extinguisher," I said.

By this time Stan walked through the doors and made a beeline towards our circle, hugging me in the middle of my sentence for a long time and then hugging Eric for an even longer time.

He even kissed both of us on each cheek, and I'm sure I looked as shocked as Eric did.

Stan had told the cops he was the owner, and they moved away then and started talking about insurance and damages and judges and lawyers.

"Was that story real?" Eric asked quietly once we were alone again, and I picked my head up to look at him. He seemed vulnerable and unsure as he clarified, "The one about you ... and Bill … at the party?"

"You heard that?" I asked, fully aware I hadn't answered his question.

He nodded solemnly, his eyes looking bigger and bluer than ever as they gazed intently at me. "All of it," he softly admitted, "but I'm not going to tell the police or anything. I just wanted to know."

I had never lied about what happened, and I certainly wasn't going to start with Eric. And I'd rather have him know than, say, Chow. I could tell he wasn't asking to be nosey and that he genuinely cared if I'd really been through all of that.

"Yeah, it's real," I muttered, looking down. "Everything about that was real."

"Oh, Sookie," he murmured. "Come here, dear one."

He took a step towards me and enveloped me in another big Eric Northman hug, and it made me feel like he was protecting me from the whole world. I loved it.

This hug wasn't as long as the last one, and Stan came over a couple minutes after it was done to tell us us the cops didn't have any more questions for us and we were free to leave, and he'd take care of everything from here.

Stan found different ways to repeat over and over again how happy he was we were okay. He hugged us each again, but his hugs were nothing like Eric's. They didn't make me hyperaware of how I smelled and where my hands were. They didn't make me feel as if an electric current was running through my veins, pulsing so loudly I was scared Eric would feel it and realize how affected I was by him.

Then Stan pulled Eric away to go over business, and I had to give my statement to the policemen about what happened. When I finally finished that, they were still standing by the cash registers, and I called Gran to tell her what I'd just gone through.

I asked her to come and pick me up and drive me home—asking Eric out for a drink was simply out of the question now. And even though it was almost eleven o'clock at night—her bedtime—Gran agreed to the idea immediately after she finished telling me how much she loved me, how proud of me she was, how happy and thankful she was I wasn't shot and killed.

I slipped outside past the policemen and Stan and Eric, not wanting to talk to anyone else about this even more. And as I looked up at the night sky, it dawned on me now that, against all odds, I was alive when I definitely shouldn't have been. And I was also realizing that I had now experienced something else that most people only experienced through watching movies.

Not only that—I had told someone, really told someone (or some people?) about what Bill did. And they believed me—or, at least, Eric did. I didn't really care whether gun guy believed me.

It felt … unsettling that someone else knew. After holding my secret in for so long, I would have expected to feel better, like there was some weight lifted off my chest. But now it felt like there were butterflies in my stomach in addition to the weight still on my chest and the world on my shoulders.

I sat down on a concrete stump at the top of the parking space closest to the building and leaned over, elbows digging into my thighs as I watched my tears trickle down my bare legs. Here I was, all alone, practically folded over myself and weeping, and all these policemen and firemen kept passing my without giving me a second thought.

A shadow appeared, blocking the light from the street lamp from shining down, and though I could only see his boots I knew it was Eric.

"I thought that was you," he said, before his feet walked over and sat himself down right next to me.

Embarrassed of my tears, I kept my head ducked down as I replied, "What would you have done if it wasn't me?"

I heard him suck on his cigarette before admitting, "I didn't get that far when I came over here."

"Good night for a drink," he said after a couple more drags. I could see the smoke exiting his mouth and drifting into the night sky.

"I was going to ask you if you wanted one before this all happened," I confided, waving my hands vaguely at the "this," as I spoke.

"You were, were you?" he murmured, more to himself.

"Yeah. I have a fake now."

"So let's go get one, then."

I turned to face him as I gave him an apologetic, watery smile. "I can't. I've asked my Gran to pick me up."

I watched him as he took a drag, his cheekbones more prominent now than ever. "I wish you hadn't done that," he admitted.

"Me too," I said mournfully.

"What's all this?" he asked, finally seeing the teardrops left on my cheek. And then he was coming right up to me so close that he could wipe away my tears with his thumb, which he did, slowly, one at a time, caressing my face. He threw his cigarette away and now used both his hands to turn my face towards his so he could assess the damage better.

"It's nothing," I mumbled, embarrassed at getting caught when I really didn't think I would.

"Have you been crying this whole time I've been talking to you?" he asked, dumbfounded.

"Not really. I was just … leaking?" I squeaked.

"There's no need to be embarrassed, Sookie," he told me, stroking my cheek. "When I thought I killed that guy, I was so scared I could have pissed myself."

The thought of a guy as cool and as unflappable as Eric peeing his pants made me smile a little, but it was enough for Eric, who murmured, "There, that's better. That's what I like to see."

Now that there weren't any more tears on my face, I thought for sure Eric would remove his hands. But he didn't.

He brought his face close to mine slowly—so slowly it was obvious what he was doing—and I watched him as he angled himself so he'd be in a good position to kiss me.

His breath was warm and smoky as I felt it on my face when he breathed his way towards me. _He_ tasted warm and smoky too as he brought his face to mine, his lips to mine, his mouth to mine.

I was shocked for a couple seconds, unmoving, uncomprehending that _this_ was happening to me, that Eric was kissing me. And I think he took it for unwillingness, because after a few seconds of my frozen state Eric retreated, not making eye contact with me.

But now it was me bringing my hand to his cheek, stopping him, assuring him. Now it was me kissing him, and I hoped that what I lacked in experience and technique I made up for in enthusiasm.

I dizzily thought that kissing Eric was so different and thrilling it deserved a name of its own. No other boy had kissed me as well as Eric did, his tongue coaxing mine into enticement, his breath feeling like fire on my lips even though the kiss itself was sweet.

I opened my eyes to peek at Eric, and a couple seconds later he opened his too. Now I finally understood what Tyra Banks meant when she said, "Smile with your eyes," because that was definitely what Eric was doing now.

And then I saw someone walk out of the store and do a double take at us—and the figure was so small I knew it had to be Stan.

_Oh shit!_

I broke off the kiss, pushing back on Eric's shoulders, and that was enough to make him stop and lean away and stare at me questioningly. But then when he heard Stan's footsteps approaching us, he turned around and then looked quickly back at me, and I could understand he now knew why I did what I did.

…

**EPOV**

Here I was thinking my heart couldn't beat any faster or louder as I kissed Sookie—and then Stan had to come outside.

At least Sookie had a damn good reason to stop the kiss when she had just started reciprocating.

Had he seen us? Was he going to see us?

In other words, _were we screwed_?

I could get us out of this, I thought. It was understandable. I could blame it on survivor's lust—never mind that I had been trying to survive my lust since March. Plus, Stan had kissed us both on the cheek (yeah, because we already had a bromance going on) and that wasn't a romantically-fueled decision at all. I could say my kiss with Sookie was just the same.

Although it wasn't. Definitely wasn't.

Stan was still looking over in our direction, and once I turned around and he saw it was me he waved and started approaching us. I hoped my shoulders and torso were large enough to obstruct the kiss so it just looked like I had been facing Sookie, not kissing her.

I could only hope.

"Hey guys," Stan said, coming over so he was standing in front of us.

I couldn't help but feel like Sookie and I were so, so little in his presence, sitting down as he stood over us, looking up at him as he looked down at us. It was like we were two kids caught doing something we shouldn't have done by a grown-up.

"How's it going in there?" I asked, gesturing to the store. Surely there'd be enough talk of the police situation that it'd be enough of a distraction.

"Busy. Somehow the local paper got wind of it and sent a reporter down, so I had to answer the questions," he replied, more to me than Sookie.

"Oh yeah?" I asked. My plan was working—no mention of what we had been up to while he was being interviewed.

"Yeah, nothing much though. Just confirmations. I didn't give out your names, though." After a moment, he added, "And I called corporate—Sophie-Anne's on her way and should be here in an hour. We'll need to go over stuff with her once she gets there."

_So drinks with Sookie were totally out of the question then. _

"How did she take it?" I asked.

Sophie-Anne was more of a thinker than a businesswoman, and her temper was legendary. Also, she was insane. I wouldn't put it past her to blame me for this happening rather than praising me and saying she was glad I was okay. Her attitude towards me was always hot and cold—there were times that she liked me more than the other employees, and then there were times that she really didn't. To be honest, she was part of the reason why I had jumped at the chance to start up a new location.

"She seemed concerned, actually," Stan told me, raising his eyebrows significantly.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw that Sookie looked really confused. Of course she was. She didn't know Sophie-Anne, obviously, but Sookie was such a nice peson that I knew she never would have thought that our boss would be anything less than concerned upon hearing that two of her employees were involved in stopping an armed robbery.

After letting that sink in, Stan turned to Sookie and said, "She seemed impressed with you, Sookie. She wants to meet you."

Regret came over Sookie's face as she replied, "Oh, I already called my Gran to take me home. She should, uh, be here any moment."

"Awh, that's too bad. You'll just have to meet her in New Orleans," Stan remarked.

"What do you mean?"

Instead of answering, Stan glanced at me and asked, "You didn't tell her yet?"

"Was getting around to it," I mumbled.

"Getting around to what?" Sookie questioned me, understandably confused.

"It was Eric's idea, and we made some inquiries and it turns out there's an opening for a part time worker at the New Orleans location of Looney Tunes, so you could have a job as soon as you started college," Stan told her.

Her eyes widened and she turned to me to exclaim, "Eric! You didn't!"

She was so excited that I was absorbing it through osmosis or something. "Yep, I did," I replied, grinning.

Sookie made a "tsk" noise and looked back and forth between me and Stan. "Wow! This is like the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me!"

After hearing Sookie's secret earlier, that meant a lot to me. It choked me up, even.

"You've earned it, Sookie. You're one of the best employees I've ever had the pleasure of working with," Stan said. He chuckled and murmured, more to himself, "And that was a line from my farewell speech."

"Farewell speech?" she asked.

"We were going to take you out to a bar on your last day next week," I admitted.

It was kind of going to be a surprise, but I guessed Stan had thought there had been enough surprises tonight. _And he didn't even know the half of it. _

"You guys!" she said, absolutely beaming, a complete turnabout from the shaky girl she'd been a couple minutes ago. It made me feel really good about myself.

A cop came out to get Stan, and he left after hugging Sookie goodbye, since he was going to have to go through paperwork or something and it would take a while.

"You really didn't have to do all that—securing me a job and everything," Sookie said, turning to me.

I was happy to do it, but it was bittersweet for me. The way I saw it, it was just another reminder that I'd received tonight that Sookie would be leaving soon, both home with her Gran and then to college in New Orleans.

We were standing up now, facing each other. I lit another cigarette, needing release after going through the ringer with Stan and not getting caught.

"It's the least I could do," I mumbled. "And sometimes Stan and I go to New Orleans for annual meetings and stuff, since that's where headquarters are, so we'll probably see you when we're there."

"I'd like that," she said sweetly.

A car pulled up next to us, and we both recognized her Gran in the driver's seat. Sookie's ride was here, and it was time for her to go home.

Adele had really shitty timing.

"Sookie!" she cried, turning the car off and walking over to embrace her granddaughter as fast as she could. She hugged Sookie tight and petted her hair, and after a couple moments where I just stood by awkwardly, she did the same to me (minus the petting the hair part).

Adele also pecked Sookie on the cheek. Everyone was kissing Sookie tonight—why was it wrong that I did it? Why couldn't I do it as openly and securely as everyone else? I would totally be fine kissing Stan if it meant Sookie was next.

And then they drove away, leaving me behind with my cigarette and my thoughts. And boy did I go through a lot of both.

I wondered if I did the right thing, kissing Sookie. It was like as soon as I saw the tears, I got the same protective feeling I always got standing next to her petite self, but amplified by a million. And I just … felt like I had to lean in. So I did.

Was it really survivor's lust—that I was so glad she was okay and unharmed by that gunman that I wanted to mark her as mine? Or was I using that as my excuse?

Sookie's kiss had come with a price. Because as nice as kissing Sookie was, it was also opening a can of worms.

She'd have to have issues surviving what she survived with Bill. I wouldn't blame her if that was true. In fact, I was in awe that she turned out as normal as she did.

And was that why I kissed her? Because I felt bad for her? Because I was proud of her? Because I wanted to show her that not all guys are perverted sex-craved rapists like Bill—because I wanted to be the first to show her that?

I hadn't planned on kissing Sookie. I was being resolute on sticking to my friends relationship with her. I got her the job in New Orleans _as a friend _and I'd planned on visiting her _as a friend_ but when I kissed her all that went out the window, maybe even forever.

Now that I knew her story—that I knew of her connection to Bill (who I still felt like I couldn't ask her about, but that didn't mean I wouldn't try and Facebook stalk him some more now that I knew his last name)—I'd be thinking even more of it now. Because now I realized that not knowing was better than knowing and speculating was easier on my nerves than the truth of it all.

And the truth of it all was that it made me wonder if Sookie would be ready. She'd run away from boys immediately after Bill, and that told me she had problems trusting guys, giving herself to them. Why would I force her to overcome all of her problems to trust me, to give herself to me, for just a week now and scattered days later? It wouldn't be fair of me to ask her to do that, assuming she even could.

That didn't stop me from thinking about the kiss right before I went to sleep. I had stayed at Looney Tunes for two hours going over things with Stan and Sophie-Anne, and before that there was the tiny little thing of bashing a guy in the face with a fire extinguisher after realizing that he was holding Sookie at gunpoint.

Stan and Sophie-Anne kept complimenting me all night—for my smart idea to think to grab the fire extinguisher and, most of all, for installing the intercom system in the first place. I'd only put it in months ago during the construction phase because I thought it'd be cool to have, and I'd been kinda disappointed that no one had used it. Now, I wasn't sure I'd use it ever again. I didn't think I could, after tonight.

Tonight had been rough.

I thought I was having a premature heart attack brought on by too many beers and fries at Bloodhound when I first heard a man demand, "Put your hands up where I can see them! Put all the money in the shopping bag. Now!" I'd been in the process of counting the money in the safe and I thought a robber had followed me into the backroom.

Admittedly, I'd even dropped the money and put my fucking hands up before I slowly and carefully turned around to see my hypothetical robber and instead saw the intercom light on—Sookie was the one being held up, Sookie was the one with a gun in her face, Sookie was the one who had turned on the intercom so I could hear this. But once I realized what was happening, I moved out of the office into the other room, closing the door behind me, and called 9-1-1 on my cell and explained that I was pretty sure there was an armed robbery happening. The person on the other line asked if I wanted her to stay to talk me through it, but I knew I couldn't, however comforting that would be.

So I hung up and grabbed the fire extinguisher—it was the best weapon I had, since I didn't think the broom would be of much help. But then again, I didn't think I'd be of much help. I wasn't James Bond.

But still, I quietly opened and closed the backroom door and quietly made my way to the registers. I could hear Sookie talking about a party and Bill taking her outside and her waking up with her underwear around her knees, and it was almost enough to distract me from what I had to do. I definitely stopped and stood still as I listened to her talking about getting her Gran's shotgun.

When I finally got the guts to peek around the CD rack, I almost dropped the extinguisher. Sookie was talking to the fucking gunman calmly, using the same manners and facial expressions while talking to him like he was a guest at her graduation party. She _would_. I was so proud of her—and amazed by her. Especially when I barely was able to recognize that she'd seen me, since her expression had barely changed. I nodded at her when I saw this._ I got this_, I wanted to convey to her with it—_I'm gonna make everything okay_.

But I almost didn't. I very nearly killed her, since I wasn't expecting the guy to have cat-like reflexes (or Bond-like, in this case, to make it more relevant) and get a shot off. I legitimately feared Sookie was hit with it, but I compartmentalized that horrifying thought and immediately whacked the guy in the back of the head, sending him to the ground in an unconscious, sprawled out position that I hoped Sookie wasn't mirroring right now. When she didn't respond to my first inquiry, I really thought she was dead or injured—that I was responsible for two people's deaths tonight, that in trying to save Sookie I'd only gotten her killed. I really thought I'd fucked it up, that I'd fucked her up, and the thought of doing that to her very nearly killed me. But finally she answered and stood up, amazingly uninjured, and everything was okay, or as okay as it could have been, at that point. Especially once the cops came.

All I know is there were a lot of things I should have been focusing on for the rest of the night, but I didn't get to them because I was still analyzing and replaying that damned kiss. And then when I finally stumbled into my bed four hours later than I had planned, I wasn't thinking about how I was almost shot or about how I had almost accidentally killed Sookie or this robber—it was only of the kiss.


	12. Denial & Anger

**A/N: I was all set to reply to your reviews, but then I got in this big writing phase and finished the chapter and figured you'd all like it more. Or, appreciate the gesture more—I'm not sure how many of you are going to actually like this chapter, and the chapter name isn't that encouraging. But please keep a clear head and remember that I love you guys and these characters and this story so, so much!**

**Thanks, as always, to chiisai-kitty. My beta, and my friend. She soothes my nerves and edits my bad grammar. Double win. **

...

**SPOV**

The days following the attempted robbery were … weird.

Gran never let me out of her sight the first couple of days—and, surprisingly, Jason came over more than usual. But they wouldn't let me help with any of the chores or cooking and that hurt more than it helped, since I needed something to do now that I couldn't work (Eric and I had been ordered to take a paid vacation off of work to recover from the robbery). Somehow Eric's Facebook page now always ended up on my computer.

Eric. That was where everything started, really.

This paid vacation went up to what was supposed to be my last day at work, but Eric had posted something in the Looney Tunes Facebook group about how we were all going to Bloodhound after closing today if anyone wanted to come, so Eric and I were joining Amelia and Stan (who had been working) and whoever else wanted to come to go to the bar.

So this was kind of my last day of Looney Tunes at Shreveport, but it was definitely the first day I'd seen Eric since that night. The night where everything happened. You'd think that being in a life-or-death situation with someone would make you feel closer with that person—especially when he kissed you immediately afterwards—but it made me feel farther apart from Eric.

I half hoped he'd have texted me some time after that asking if I wanted to go out and get that drink, but he didn't offer. We'd texted a little—he asked me how I was doing the day afterwards, and I replied I was doing okay but was still rattled by it, to which he said he felt the same. So at least he had reached out to me that way. But it kind of ended when I didn't text him back.

When I first came in, it was Amelia who was at the cash registers (behind which there was a new window and in front of which was a rug without the big blood stain that had been there the last time I had seen it) and she was the one to hug me, to tell me she was glad I was alive, to tell me she was proud of me.

And once I was spotted, Stan came over to hug me and told me that everyone had heard about what Eric and I did—apparently we were kind of legends in the whole Looney Tunes community. Plus, Sophie-Anne had left a message saying she would personally stop in the New Orleans location once I started working there to meet with me. And they kept going on about how cool Eric and I had been, which I kept downplaying since I never once felt cool during the whole attempted robbery.

Eric hadn't arrived yet—it was 10:05 and I had specifically planned to arrive just after closing—and I busied myself with going to the bathroom and checking my makeup as I waited for him.

Not having anything to do today besides pack—something I had busied myself with all week—I had taken care with my appearance tonight. I had shaved and exfoliated and moisturized to the point where I couldn't smell anything other than the lotions and scrubs I had used, and thankfully it hadn't gone to waste either. I was wearing more mascara and eyeliner than normal, and I was wearing a black cotton tank dress and plain silver flip flops. I wanted to look good, and I did.

I was anxious, waiting for Eric, because I had absolutely no idea what would happen when we finally saw each other for the first time since we had kissed. Was he going to try and kiss me again, later, in private? Or tell me why we couldn't do it? I didn't know what he would do, and I was a little scared of either option.

When I walked back to the counter, I saw Eric sitting on the back table facing me but not looking at me, instead staring at Stan as he said something. Eric was leaning forward towards me, hands on jean-clad knees and gifting me with a look down his green V-neck tee at his man-cleavage, and he picked his head up at the sound of my approach. As soon as he saw me, he stood up. It was a little awkward seeing him for the first time since that night.

"Sookie," he said plainly.

"Eric."

Stan and Amelia said nothing but watched everything.

"It's good to see you," he finally said, looking me up and down as if to make his point.

I would have expected him to hug me, as he always did when he saw me outside of work, but he didn't. He looked as awkward and unsure as I felt.

"You too," I replied quietly after a couple seconds.

"Oh, come on—let's see a hug from the two heroes!" Amelia exclaimed, causing me and Eric to switch to staring at her.

A hug was the last thing we needed to do right now. She might as well have ordered us to start making out again.

But Eric looked back at me, and I could tell he was going to do it. My suspicions were confirmed when he opened his arms and I had to take the couple steps toward him to give him the hug Amelia so wanted.

He felt and smelled the same, but this hug was different, looser in physicality but tighter in tension. He was aware of it, too.

But the awkwardness disappeared when we stopped hugging, when Stan said we could go now. I was glad. Our hugs had never been awkward before.

"Eric, you always drive everywhere. Let me be the chauffeur tonight," I said as I watched him take his car keys out of his pocket.

"But it's your last night!" he sputtered.

"Which is why I should do it!" I proclaimed.

Amelia and Stan quietly watched us, and when Eric hung his head and agreed, they both looked surprised.

So there we were—me in the driver's seat, Eric up front with me, and Amelia and Stan in the back. And Amelia and Stan automatically let Eric take shotgun, and I still didn't know why they were so willing to sit in the backseat whenever we all went out together.

Eric played DJ Eric—DJ-E, Stan called him—in my car, with my iPod. I was so incredibly self-conscious about that at first, much more than my driving or how I smelled, but I lightened up once Eric kept finding all these songs on my iPod and smiling at them.

He really liked the "childhood" playlist I had and played songs off of that—all the hits from classic '90s bands like Gin Blossoms, Third Eye Blind, Bare Naked Ladies, Goo Goo Dolls, Counting Crows, Matchbox 20, and a surprising amount of Spice Girls.

Eric air-guitared when he could, and my car was so small and his wingspan so long that sometimes he bumped my shoulder while rocking out. I didn't care.

I also didn't care that he kept reaching over to manually lower or raise the volume using my car's stereo volume controller, when I told him that he could change volumes on the iPod.

His announcement that yes, I did indeed have a whole playlist of Disney songs, sparked a heated discussion in the car between Stan and Amelia about whether or not that was a good thing (Amelia arguing for me, Stan arguing against).

"Promise me we'll talk later, about that night" Eric murmured, quietly so the peanut gallery in the backseat couldn't hear over their debate about generational divide.

We were at a red light and I looked right at him. It was dark in the car, and I could just make out the contours of his face—the curve of his lips, the line of his nose, the indents in his cheekbones. But those weren't helpful in figuring out Eric's expression.

"I promise," I told him.

I didn't know what I'd do if he told me he wasn't romantically interested, just like I didn't know what I'd do if he told me he was. I didn't know what I wanted with Eric and I was scared to find out what it was he wanted with me.

Hence the putting things off.

Surprisingly, after our non-talk, things got less strained behind us. Eric let me choose all the music played, and then we'd go ahead and talk about it. When I played the Gaslight Anthem—a band that always reminded me of Eric and probably, hopefully always would—he got a smile on his face so bright I had this funny feeling like everything would be okay between us.

And I got it again when Eric became more attentive, asking if I liked whatever song was playing at the moment and also giving me directions to the bar. He'd always look on his side to see if I could turn or merge and then tell me if it was a good time to go.

It was like how he would have acted—how we would have acted—if we hadn't kissed. What the heck did that mean!

I thought about what I'd been thinking about ever since the kiss: I liked Eric, but I was scared of what would happen if he liked me back. And as much as I almost wanted there to be something between us, I was paralyzed by the thought of what would happen if there actually was. Each side canceled the other, so my stance towards Eric should therefore be decidedly neutral.

In theory.

I wanted to put it off for as long as possible—take the Band-Aid off ridiculously slowly. Talking about the kiss would probably be awkward and put a damper on my last day and I didn't want that.

Eric was perfectly magnetizing that night, drawing me and everyone else towards him. He was in his element at Bloodhound, just as he had been the night at the party—giving the doorman a man hug/high five, waving to the sound guys, smiling for the waitresses, getting a free pitcher of beer from the bartender. Everyone wanted to do something for him; whether it was letting his party go in without checking IDs (which annoyed me because I really wanted to see if I'd pass inspection!) or giggling at his jokes like the waitresses or asking if he wanted to play a song or two with the band like the musicians (he declined), it was all about Eric at Bloodhound.

It made me realize Eric was not mine—I had to share him with all these people who, even if they hadn't kissed him (although some of the waitresses made me doubt that, with their eye fucks and cleavage-revealing bending), they definitely were going to be seeing him a lot this fall and winter and spring and summer.

It made me realize I was not Eric's.

But it almost felt like I was, once Isabelle and Pam had come for Stan and Amelia respectively. Isabelle was cute and sweet—the opposite of Pam, who looked drop-dead gorgeous in her classic black sheath and pearls.

"Sookie—I'm unsure if it's a good thing or a bad thing to see you again in an area where alcoholic beverages could be served to both of us," she said wryly, a half smirk playing on her red lips.

"I could say the same to you!" I replied. "Perhaps we should have the good and the bad cancel each other out so our greeting is neutral, which is still an improvement over the first time you said hello to me."

After a moment where I had half a mind that Pam would slap me, she surprised everyone by throwing her head back and laughing. She hugged me after that, and I guessed it was because she thought I had earned the privilege that few did, judging by Eric's raised eyebrow and Amelia's opened mouth.

I was surprised too. After accepting Pam's friendship request on Facebook, all the interaction I'd had with her was just me liking the status she had drunkenly made that was just my name.

But I didn't get that much time to talk to her, or any of the others. Once we were shown to our table, the couples had paired off, since in the horseshoe ring-shaped booth all the couples were sitting next to each other with me and Eric on one end. I don't think they realized it or meant for this to happen, but sometimes they were very alienating, lost in their own world of kisses and jokes and knee-holding.

Stan and Isabelle were quiet and shy and content to let the others—the louder, more boisterous ones like Pam and Amelia—dominate the conversation. The two couples seemed to be grouped together in a good fit, with matching personalities. Where did I fit it—and where did Eric?

It was enough to make me feel awkward sitting next to him, and I could tell by his straight posture he felt the same way. Sure, he was sitting next to me as we ordered drinks and I picked a Tom Collins (even showing ID to a waitress who barely glanced at it), but it felt different from the last time we were at a bar. Because we were different from the last time we were at a bar.

We talked about pleasant, ordinary stuff—what song was playing now, how often Eric played here, stuff like that. I tried to pay attention, but it was hard when Eric's thigh was touching mine, when sometimes I'd move my leg and accidentally press it against his for a second or two. And it was hard to pay attention when Eric was talking to me and it wasn't about the kiss.

Stan and Amelia, bless them, kept going on about how the dream team of me and Eric was being broken up, and how they'd all be sure to visit me in New Orleans. But I squirmed under their words, knowing the secret meaning they held for just me and Eric without their owners even knowing it.

I also squirmed a little at how everyone started telling their college stories because while they were funny, they also made me feel so young compared to everyone else. But after a while I didn't mind because the stories were so funny—of Pam being locked out of her room in nothing but a towel and flip flops as a tour group walked by on her second day as a freshman at Smith; of Isabelle drunkenly losing a sandal walking back from a party because she thought she had to cartwheel back to the dorm—which she did without vomiting once, she proudly informed us—when she was at Texas A of Eric shyly telling the story of his awkward encounter during parent's weekend of senior year when he was buying this girl tampons at the bookstore and ran into her father, who just hugged Eric and said he was glad his little princess still had her period.

The best by far was quiet Stan, who, during his senior year at Penn State, ran the naked Wild Turkey two mile (where he ran two miles around the track naked and took a shot of Wild Turkey at the start of every lap) to win a collected $800 from bets.

But then the serious part came—when it was time for everyone to acknowledge that this was my last time meeting with the group. And that felt like a bucket of ice cold water was being thrown at me.

When the laughter died down, Eric stood up, which was easy for him to do since he was seated at the edge of the table, and raised his mug of beer.

I closed my eyes for a second. I knew what he was going to do—he was going to do a big, grand speech that would end with a toast to me. It was like being sung happy birthday, which I always found to be something equally embarrassing and pleasing. On one hand, I didn't want all the attention of me, but on the other hand, I kind of did.

"I propose a toast to the only teenager at Looney Tunes, the only person without tattoos or extra piercings, the only person who never had a record player—to Sookie Stackhouse, who ended up rising above all of us twenty something, tattooed, pierced, record-spinning worker bees who couldn't get customer emails like Sookie, who couldn't calm a customer down like Sookie, and who couldn't make everyone and anyone smile like Sookie can," Eric proposed, smiling down at me the whole time.

"To Sookie!" everyone cheered, taking a sip from their glass. Bashfully, I joined in, nodding my head at Eric before I did to show my appreciation. He nodded back at me, eyes on mine as he drank.

"And this goes to the worker who never missed a day of work on purpose—barring medical emergencies or armed robberies, of course—and never showed up late. To the person I never got angry with or had to scold or talk to. To the person who always made the long shifts a little bit more fun. To Sookie!" Stan said, and once again everyone drank.

I was honored, and speechless. I would miss this mismatched group of friends I had managed to find, regardless of what would happen to me and Eric later. Because they—Eric, Stan, and Amelia—had found me when I had let others treat me like I was invisible. They became my friends despite differences in ages and genders and personalities and hobbies and interests and I really liked all of them for it. I knew that they probably did not value our friendship as I did—that it did not mean as much to them as it did to me because they had friends outside of work, but I was still glad I got to know them.

But it was sad too. I would never meet people like them, I already knew. And this might be the last time we got together, the last time we drank together, the last time we laughed together.

Astonishingly, I felt myself becoming more sentimental here than at my own high school graduation.

And I was tearing up here, unlike at graduation. Granted, I was still smiling like that day I donned my cap and gown and walked onstage to get my diploma—but I was smiling as I was willing myself not to cry.

That became pretty damn hard when Eric, Amelia, and Stan all presented me with a laminated copy of the original list of names all those people had called me since I started working at Looney Tunes.

"You guys! This is so thoughtful," I gushed before telling Pam and Isabelle the story behind this so they wouldn't feel left out.

"And no one called you sugar bear?" Pam asked, reading over the list and then turning it over to the other side. She looked up at me and grinned wolfishly. "Is it too late to add it?"

"Pam!" I cried, reaching over and taking it from her. I hadn't looked at the back page, and when I did it was enough to make me cry.

The list only went on for half a page on the back side, but I could see that the bottom right corner had something small scrawled there, far away from where all of the other names were written. Bringing the paper closer to my face, I saw the words "dear one" written in Eric's small, slanted handwriting. It was the name he had repeatedly called me the night of the robbery, and I had noticed that he hadn't used it since. Until he had found the time to add it to this paper, apparently; I just knew he was the one in charge of laminating it, and he had made his little addition when he knew no one else at the store would catch him doing it.

Heart melting, I looked over at him and saw that he was watching me—probably had been the whole time, just wanting to see my reaction. When he noticed my gaze, he smiled a sour little smile and I grinned back with my mouth closed, like I always did when I was smiling about something that made me sad.

I leaned over and whispered in his ear, "You're not included with the rest of them."

The look on Eric's face told me it had been the right thing to say to him.

"Thanks, dear one," he whispered right back.

Everyone had another round except me—I was still only halfway through the Tom Collins. I didn't want to get embarrassingly drunk like last time and have to crash at someone else's house again because I was in no condition to drive. I wasn't really sure of what my respectable limit of drunkenness was—or how many drinks it took until it was one too many—and didn't want to find out tonight.

It was fine. After all, Isabelle and Stan had just stuck to Cokes tonight. And Eric did ask if I was sure I didn't want another drink, and when I said I was he didn't press it. Probably because I would have to be driving him back to Looney Tunes.

Yeah. I'd be driving him back to Looney Tunes. Alone. Just the two of us.

Isabelle was going home with Stan and Pam was going to stay over at Amelia's. And because those couples had paired off for transportation, Eric and I were going to have to do the same—even though we weren't a couple, and even though we had yet to talk about the kiss we'd shared.

And if Eric was going to tell me we weren't a good idea and he didn't want it, then it'd be a really, really awkward car ride. Although he was such a gentleman he'd probably make me laugh as he played DJ the whole way back to Looney Tunes and then tell me he just wanted to be friends before hugging me goodnight and driving away in his own car.

This is what I agonized by myself in the bathroom, my first true alone time all evening. Or, it was, until two women entered the bathroom and stank it up with their gossip.

I had been ready to just flush the toilet and walk out of the stall, but I stopped, hand on the lock, once I heard Eric's name.

"Did you see Eric?" one asked—the one with the big Southern accent.

From where her voice sounded like it was coming from, she was the one in the black sneakers on the right, from what I could see through from where I was crouching to look underneath of the stall. Both shoes had black pants being worn above them—black, like the color of the pants of the waitress uniform.

The woman in the black boots on the left replied, "Yeah—and did you see he was the only one without a girl in the booth?"

Black sneaks replied, "There was a drink there, though. Whoever it is, she's a lucky bitch."

"He doesn't usually come in here with a girl. And he doesn't come in here just for drinks either. He always leaves with a girl after drinks, every time, like clockwork. What gives?"

"Fuck if I know. We'll have to corner Steffie for details since she's waiting on them tonight. And she's the only one of us gals who isn't half in love with him! Oh, the parody."

"You mean, 'oh, the irony?'"

"Yeah, that too," black sneaks said. She stood on tip toe and I heard the pop of a lipstick tube being opened and then lips smacking. "Ready to go back?"

"Sure, Maury'd kill us if we were in here any longer," black boots said. And then they were moving and the door was opening and closing and I finally emerged from the stall, ears burning.

When I got back to the seat, I looked at all the waitress' shoes for the two women I had overheard in the bathroom. But it turned out all the waitresses wore black shoes, and it was too dark for me to be able to differentiate a boot from a sneaker from a ballet flat. I thought I'd try to look at all the women staring into our booths, but then I found that there were a lot of them.

Always. She'd said "always" when describing Eric's plan, which apparently was like "clockwork" when it came to fucking women.

I didn't say anything to Eric. Those girls sounded awfully catty and who knows, their jealousy was probably causing them to exaggerate. But Eric's hotness couldn't be exaggerated, and I was sure that, like all rumors, there was a tiny little nugget of truth in their words.

It took another half hour of smiling and nodding and talking until the group decided to call it a night. I hugged everyone goodnight, even Isabelle who I'd just met earlier—but my hugs with Stan and Amelia were so long it could have looked to passerby that I had passed out in their embrace.

I was leaving for Tulane in four days and my last paycheck would be mailed to me. Sure, I could visit when I was home for Thanksgiving break—but that was in November, and it felt to me like I might as well not be able to see these wonderful people for another year.

But out of everyone, I didn't hug Eric—because I wasn't done with him yet.

Stan and Isabelle wandered over to the left to her car, holding hands and murmuring, and Pam and Amelia had arms slung casually around shoulders and waists as they walked to Pam's Mercedes in the back parking lot laughing about something.

Eric and I quietly walked back to my car, about half a foot between us.

The rev of the engine was the only sound in the car once I pulled out of my space, and once I left the parking lot it was only the music Eric had played—Nick Drake.

Nick Drake—who I usually loved, but not right now. Instead of the calm croons and interesting guitar tuning, all I could hear was music played by a depressed guy who might have killed himself.

I didn't see it as a good sign.

But then Eric went ahead and turned the volume down low, shocking me; I could barely make out what song was playing, and that was because I was a huge Nick Drake freak. The music was always played loudly and for fun when Eric was DJ, but not now.

"So how about now we have that talk we've been avoiding all night, yeah?" Eric said casually, face towards me.

I tried my best not to squeeze the wheel in reaction, because I knew Eric would pick up on it, but I did it anyways, unconsciously.

"Um, okay," I mumbled. And gripped the steering wheel even tighter, bracing myself for the car crash that was soon to be my life.

…

**EPOV**

"So what do you want to do about it?" I asked, sounding as nonchalantly as I could.

The kiss had made me think long and hard about the best way to handle it. And the best thing I'd come up with was to let Sookie decide.

Yep. Let Sookie decide. Yes or no. Just like that.

There was a part of me screaming that I was stupid for this. Sookie was just eighteen and had never had a boyfriend. Would she know what to do? Did she even _know_ what she wanted to do?

I could seduce her—more. I could call her and take her out and have her home right before eleven just ready to be kissed on her front porch. I could do that.

But I'd only have a week to do that.

Or I could call her and taker her out in New Orleans and have her in her bedroom right before twelve (on a school day) just ready to be kissed outside her dorm. I could also do that.

And I could start doing that in a week.

Or I could do neither. It'd be hard, really hard, but I knew I could do it, if that was what Sookie wanted. Because I would do what Sookie wanted me to do, for us (her desire for me to quit smoking was another thing).

If I had to be honest with myself—which I was late at night when it was just me in my bed, as it had been for quite some time now—I really thought that Sookie would chose C.) None of the above.

After all, it had taken her like two years to tell someone she'd been raped. That she had kissed a boy the very night she told her secret was a miracle. But to expect her—to hope for her—to want to start up something with him a week afterwards was ludicrous. It stung to think about it, but I knew it was true.

And that was why I would do whatever Sookie wanted, and I would be whoever Sookie wanted me to be. If you love something set it free and shit.

"Um, I don't know. What do you want to do about it?" she said, queen of passive aggressiveness.

Jesus Christ, this was going to be like pulling teeth. But I'd make myself go through with it.

"Nuh-huh. You don't get to do this. And besides, I asked first: what do you want to do about it?" I pressed her.

Her grip on the steering wheel tightened even more, but Sookie was able to give me an answer after a couple moments. "I don't know."

"Not good enough. I think you do know, but you don't want to say it. But you have to."

I was looking out my window now, my right hand was fisted into a ball I took care to conceal from her. The game was up. I knew what Sookie was going to say before she probably even did—that we weren't going to happen.

"Eric, I …" she said. She closed her mouth and opened it a few more times before finally deciding to go with, "I'm going to Tulane next week."

I didn't say anything. Sookie needed to say everything. She had to.

My silence caused her to look over at me twice, but then she finally realized I wasn't going to start talking so she added, "So that's a couple hours away, Eric. And I know you said that headquarters is in New Orleans and you go into the city from time to time, and even if you came and visited me every weekend I'm not sure if that would work for me."

I turned to watch her say, "I like you, Eric. I really do, although what I'm going to say will make you doubt this. You've made me feel things about a boy that I thought had been stolen by Bill along with my virginity. And even more importantly, you've been a very good friend to me, and I also haven't had one of those since Bill. I appreciate it, really, but … that's all I can do."

We were at a stoplight now, and she turned to face me. "Because going to college and leaving my home in a small town to live all by myself in a big city are already a lot of things for me to get used to. And I know that it's not going to be easy, but hopefully I'll be able to adjust. But the thing is, I have to go one step at a time and adapting to college far away from home is the first step. You understand, right?"

I blinked at her. Fuck nodding.

"And I'd like to think that maybe in the future I'd be ready for the next big step—dating. But I don't know when that will be, and it wouldn't be fair to string you along until then. Eric, if I started something with you now, then I'd definitely be stringing you along. And I can't let myself do that, and I can't let you go along with that, no matter how badly you'd want to. If you'd even want to, I mean."

I could see doubt and uncertainty clouding her face as clearly as smoke. She was replaying what cues I'd given her to make her think I wanted something with her—and I had done them pretty much everywhere else except right now, in this car—and she was thinking to herself that she was assuming I wanted something from her.

"I'd go along with that," I quietly offered.

Eyes on the road, since it was green now, she replied, "I know you would, Eric. But it's not fair to you. You can't pine over a girl with unbelievable trust and intimacy issues and throw away your social and sex life for a couple hours of handholding on the weekends. And that's what you'd be doing if we made a thing of this," she said.

"What do you mean, my social and sex life?" I asked, confused. Of course I hadn't told Sookie about picking up women—just like I hadn't told Sookie that I'd stopped doing it. Why did she have that silly idea in her pretty little head—and who had put it there?

"I mean, Eric, you're in your twenties and you're hot. I don't blame you, but I know about the one-night stands, from the waitresses and Pam. I can't give you sex. I don't think I could even give you second base right now."

I stared at her until the silence got too long that she looked back at me. Feeling enough to pen a dozen tortured artist love songs, I told her, "I can wait. I've been waiting. For you. All for you."

Apparently that wasn't the right thing for me to say. Sookie exploded, exclaiming, "But I don't know how long I'd have to make you wait! Don't you get it? Everything's on me and I can't deal with that pressure!"

And then I did get it. I wouldn't be hovering over her sprawled, resisting body with my dick out of my pants, but I'd be pressuring her just like Bill. If I forced her to have a thing with me—or even if I got her to agree to having a thing with me and think it was all her idea—I'd be relationship-raping her.

There was no fucking way I'd let it come to that. Even if it killed me, I wouldn't do that to her.

Sookie needed time to get over Bill more than she needed to get with me. As much as it absolutely _sucked_, it was true. And my being around probably wouldn't help her get over her issues either.

I was furious—but I couldn't be angry at Sookie. No, because I'd have to be a puppy-killing, baby-eating Nazi if I was angry at Sookie. So I was pissed at Bill instead. Fucking Bill. Fucking Bill who did this to me when I didn't deserve it and Sookie sure as hell didn't. Fucking Bill who did all this years ago and still managed to be right here in this car, no matter where he was now, influencing everything. God help us both if I ever met him.

We were almost at Looney Tunes now—minutes away, even. I didn't speak again until we were pulling into the parking lot. Didn't look at her either, just stared out the window.

"Eric?" Sookie asked, turning the car off since we were parked next to her car.

"Sookie, I like you. I really like you. And it fucking hurts that even though you like me too, you're not going to do anything about it. I understand your reasons, I do—and it makes me feel shitty when I don't like them even though, like, you were raped and don't want to rush into something and that all makes sense and it's supposed to and it does. But I really, really wish it didn't," I admitted.

Under the faint light of the streetlight, I could see Sookie's mouth was hanging open and her eyes were trained on me. So I continued, "And I don't want to push you. I get that if I forced myself on you in purely a figurative sense, it'd be just as wrong. I wish there was some way for us to be together but you're making it seem like there isn't. And because this is about you, and it's way bigger and more important than me, I'm going to let you choose. It's going to suck and I'm going to regret this tomorrow morning and the next morning and many others, but if you feel, deep down, that this is something you have to do by yourself, without someone to lean on and without a familiar face in a strange city, then that's your choice. Because I choose you, Sookie, but your choice is worth more and can top mine. I just want you to use it wisely."

I leaned over, not even unbuckling my seatbelt, and kissed her cheek. I let my lips linger, and forced myself not to move over to her mouth. Especially when Sookie was just sitting here like she was.

"Eric, I don't know what to say," Sookie finally admitted. There were tears in her eyes and I hated that I knew what she looked like when she cried.

"Say yes," I supplied. I wasn't kissing her anymore, but I hadn't yet retreated to my side of her car. "Say yes to me."

The words came out of her mouth slowly, one by one. "I want to…"

I finished the sentence for her, turning to look in front of me. My voice sounded dull as I answered, "But you won't."

"I can't. Not now."

"Later?"

"Maybe."

"I'll be here. I'm always here," I said, gesturing to the darkened store. "Visit on every break you have—Thanksgiving, Chrismas, whatever. Keep in touch. Make the first move, whenever you can, and when you finally do, I'll take it."

"I don't know when that will be," she tearfully told me.

"Just let me know when you do," I said.

"I will."

"And besides, 'Roam' by the B-52s wasn't written in a day," I said, trying to put a smile on her face. I couldn't leave Sookie if she was just crying.

That did the trick. She smiled a little, a lone teardrop running down her face, as she replied, "And we weren't either."

...

**A/N: The three songs I listened to over and over again while writing this were "Birds of a Feather" by the Civil Wars, "You Don't Make it Easy Babe" by Josh Ritter, and "She Don't Like Roses" by Christine Kane. **

**And I'd say more but I'm just gonna go ahead and run and duck for cover ... (next three chapters are already written)**


	13. Bargaining & Depression

**A/N: WOWZA! Lotsa responses to the last chapter and I appreciated all of them. Dunno if you've noticed, but the last chapter, like this one, was named after steps of the five stages of grief. And there's only one more "stage" left ... interpret that as you want.**

**My beta chiisai-kitty is AWESOMESAUCE. I send her three chapters at a time like a pompous jerk and she views it as a reward for finishing all her work. :)**

**These characters are not mine. I just give them a soundtrack.**

**...**

**EPOV**

Sometimes there were days where I hated working at Looney Tunes (and most of those happened in the beginning months, when I was in charge of setting up the store), but I'd never had a whole week of feeling like that. But I did, and it all started the night Sookie passed me up and left me hanging.

I didn't cry, and I didn't eat ice cream, and I definitely didn't watch _Dirty Dancing_, but Pam still had to go ahead and call me a little girl whose boyfriend dumped her.

Sometimes there were days where I hated having Pam as my best friend.

Pam was right, kind of. But I had good reason to mope! I had laid everything on the line for this girl and it wasn't good enough. I had promised to wait for her love, for sex, for a relationship, for everything and I still got turned down—by an eighteen-year-old girl!

Honestly, she should have been glad I was at least getting out of bed every morning.

I was lucid enough to acknowledge that yes, sometimes I shuffled around the house like a zombie and eating nothing but Bagel Bites and beer. But Greg didn't have to tattletale on me and talk to Pam about it. And he totally didn't have to tell her that he heard me call out Sookie's name while fucking the first girl I'd brought back from Bloodhound at the end of August; I'd forgotten her name, but that was still no excuse. And if I had told her that, she probably would have slapped me another time before throwing her clothes on and storming out.

And then because Pam was so gossipy and nosy, she went ahead and told Amelia. Never mind that they had amicably broken up in the beginning of September and Amelia was now dating this new guy, Tray Dawson while Pam was hooking up with random women. They still kept in touch, if only to gossip about me like the annoying older sisters I felt they were.

So then that made Amelia all concerned and nice to me at work, though not when she told Stan everything, and they both ganged up on me asking how I was like twenty times a day.

I wasn't lying when I told them that they were making me hate them because I didn't need their help and was _fine_.

But there were many things that reminded me of Sookie at Looney Tunes that I wished I could forget about.

The biggest example was when a regular asked where Sookie was—or, in most cases, where that cute/sweet/pretty/little/blonde girl/woman/young lady/teenager was. Because, wow, that really happened a lot. Even when Sookie wasn't here, I could have made a list of names people called her. Figured.

And I always thought of Sookie when I was closing and had to count the money in the register, or every damn time I saw the intercom button in the backroom. Always.

We still texted occasionally, but that wasn't that often. And when we did, it was of little things—something a customer did or a cool piece of merchandise that had come in. Not like, _Eric, why don't you visit me this weekend?_ or _I'll be home next week, what days are good for you?_

I still liked stuff on her Facebook—but none of the pictures added of her by people I didn't know who were from Tulane. And there were a lot of them added, so I knew Sookie was having fun and partying. I just wished she was doing it with me. I don't think I would have been able to take it if I started seeing her kissing and hugging a guy, or if she changed her relationship status, but thankfully none of that happened. On Facebook, that is.

I didn't get around to hosting a party until Labor Day, and when I did it damn near killed me when people asked me where my bartending buddy was. I just said that she couldn't come—I didn't tell them it was because she was in college. And man, so many people asked me that question that night that I turned it into a drinking game where I took a shot each time someone asked, and I ended up getting pretty sloshed.

The next party I threw, I still played my own secret drinking game, but I only ended up taking five shots. And the next party—no shots. No questions. No Sookie.

But it made me feel a little better that I wasn't the only person Sookie and her wide eyed, eighteen-year-old charm had left a big impression on.

I kinda felt bad for Felicia, the shy, gothic, pudgy community college student I'd hired to replace Sookie—everyone told her she had big shoes to fill, and everyone meant it. You bet I meant the hell out of it (but not in a romantic way, obviously).

And Felicia was the total opposite of Sookie, which is why she got the job—though I never told her or anyone else. She wasn't that fun, she got along better with Chow and those guys than anyone else, and she wore lots of black. People didn't call her any cute names, probably because they could tell she'd bite their heads off if they did.

I wondered if people called Sookie names at the store in New Orleans. I wondered if someone had kept a list of them. And most of all, I wondered what Sookie did with the list I'd made for her.

And then I thought, fuck wondering. So I broke my rule when I had to meet with Sophie-Anne in the middle of October for a mid-season report—I made what could be considered the first move when I stopped by the New Orleans Looney Tunes location.

I let myself do it on only one condition, a pretty big one—I couldn't ensure that Sookie was there when I came in, so I didn't call her or text her or tell her on Facebook. I had this grand idea that it'd be fate and that we were fated, so of course she'd be there when I happened to stop by.

But she wasn't there. Of course.

And because I was the stupidest guy on the planet, I had this hope that maybe she was on break or was in the backroom, and that was why I couldn't see her during my turn about the store that just produced a rare Zombies record I'd been looking to add to my collection. And that was the only thing keeping me back from asking Rasul, the manager of the store that I usually sat next to during big Looney Tunes meetings, where Sookie was.

I didn't have to—he told me. He knew that I was the one who got her the job there and like every other senior employee at Looney Tunes, he knew that we'd taken down that armed robber together. And he didn't know jack shit about our history, but he still apologetically told me, "Sorry, man, Sookie's not in today. Too bad, right?"

Yeah. Too fucking bad, all right.

I just nodded and said something like, "Yeah" and thrust my Zombies record at him. I knew Rasul was into '60s rock so I thought he might have started talking about the find I'd made, but instead he started talking about how nice Sookie was and how lucky they were to have her and shit like that.

He didn't know how lucky they were to have her. And I only knew how lucky I was to have _had_ her, briefly.

It was a sign that she wasn't there. _Serendipity, _we were not.

The first thing I did once I got back home was to deactivate my Facebook page. I was going to go cold-turkey from Sookie—something I had decided during the long and boring meeting with Sophie-Anne and on the even longer and more boring ride to Shreveport. I was already not texting her—and now I wouldn't be able to Facebook stalk her.

She didn't come in for a visit for Thanksgiving break, like I thought she might. But I was so pleased with myself for only realizing it on Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving where there were a ton of sales going on in the store, and then it was only because I was so fed up with pushy, annoying customers that I wished I could just sic Sookie on them. So even when I thought of her, it was purely work-related—it was an idea that could have popped into anyone's head, from Stan to Amelia to even Big C or Chow.

It was progress.

…

**SPOV**

College was everything I had hoped it would be. My classes were a little harder than my high school classes, but I studied hard and did well. I still managed to go out to a party with Tara every Friday and always had a group of friends to go out to brunch with the next morning. I was feeling pretty good about myself.

Looney Tunes was another story.

Rasul, the manager, was the only person I liked at my new job—and I was as close to him as I was to, say, Big C at the Shreveport store. Every worker here was really standoffish and petty, both the boys and the girls. No one ever went out for a drink and they all barely joked around during work, they were so hipster and oddly competitive.

The only time people seemed to care about me was my second week there when Sophie-Anne came in (wearing a silk dress and heels at nine in the morning) to meet me and thank me for the courage and bravery I'd shown thwarting the armed robbery. They'd fake-laughed and fake-smiled and multi-tasked in their ass-kissing of me and Sophie-Anne. But honestly, she was so snooty I would have been better off not meeting her, though I made sure I didn't act that way. I could see why Eric wasn't a big fan of her.

I had texted him once she left to say I met her—the first time I had texted him since going to college—and he had replied "I'm so sorry." We talked a little bit more about her, but it stopped after a couple text messages.

But as fall became winter and the temperature dropped lower, so did the amount of conversation Eric and I had via text message. I don't know who started it by not responding to the other's text, but we both went with it. He'd no longer text me when something funny happened at the store, and I didn't do the same for him. We never had those "what's up?" messages, but now we stopped texting even when we were reminded of the other—or at least, I did.

And then there was that random day in October when Rasul told me Eric had stopped by the previous day, without even asking for me.

Of course I made Rasul tell me everything.

Apparently Eric had walked right in—said he was in town for an update with Sophie-Anne—and had time to kill before the meeting. He made small talk with Rasul, and when Rasul told him I wasn't in—because Eric hadn't even asked—Eric just shrugged and said that was okay. And then he bought a Zombies record and left.

Rasul didn't add that Eric had just broken my spirits. He didn't know about that.

Why hadn't Eric reached out to me? He could have done it on Facebook or through cell. Hell, he could have done it via snail mail (if he searched the right things on Google) and I still probably would have received word of his upcoming visit. In this technological era, he had no excuse, in my eyes.

Granted, we weren't texting regularly—now I resisted the urge to do it when I was reminded of him or had a funny customer story to tell him. And we had never really talked on the phone, so I could see how that'd be weird.

But on Facebook, I still got the random notification that Eric liked a status or a video or a picture (but only ones relating to music, like a fake Google Maps set of directions using the lyrics of Old Crow Medicine Show's "Wagon Wheel").

No comments or posts on my wall, though, and I made sure I did the same for him, only liking music-themed stuff. It was enough to show the other that we were paying attention and caring about the other, but not enough to warrant direct talking.

I never told tell him when I would be home for Thanksgiving break. He never asked if I'd be coming home.

And I never visited Looney Tunes—not even when I came home. And it damn near broke my heart because every time I was home Gran would ask if I was going to Shreveport and see the gang—and Eric—and I always told her no.

The worst part was that I really wanted to.

I could have just stopped in randomly, like Eric had done to me. But … then what? I still wasn't ready for anything with Eric. Obviously, he didn't want to see me, or else he would have made sure I was working when he came in the store. Eric didn't want anything to do with me now, I guessed, and he had good reasons for it.

But, I was always reminded of him sometimes when I went to parties with Tara.

I wished it was only because I'd look at the crappy beer and jungle juice and think about how Eric predicted I'd see them a lot in college. I mentally laughed when I thought about how he, the alcohol connoisseur, would scoff at these meager alcoholic offerings if he were here. I wondered what it'd be like if these parties had actual bartenders, and what if they were me and Eric, serving drinks to these people and then laughing about them once they left. If a party was bad, I'd get the urge to think about all the ways Eric could have made it better, if he was actually there with me. But he wasn't, ever.

To be honest, I thought of him the most while getting hit on other guys—because they weren't him.

After all, I didn't think Eric acted like they did in college, asking girls standard questions about hometowns and majors while getting to know their boobs. No, because he was better than that; when Eric was in college he was learning how to drink at bars while playing in a band.

None of the boys tempted me (because they were big horny creeps) and I didn't hook up with a random guy at parties like Tara sometimes did. And God bless Tara, because she never asked why.

It was stupid. Why was it that I liked someone but was scared of being with them—and when I was given the opportunity, I turned them down? And after all that, still thought of them fondly, romantically, usually? It was mindless torture—that's what it was.

I felt like Eric was my celebrity crush that I obsessed over and saved pictures of on my laptop and watched or read dozens of interviews of, and once I finally got to meet him I didn't—couldn't— do anything but freak out internally.

Because I realized right away, the first weekend of school, how completely unprepared I was to let a boy in my life.

The most obvious was the number of pillows I brought to college—one, just for me. Tara, on the other hand, had at least five or six of all different shapes and sizes and colors, much like the boys she brought back.

I hadn't thought to bring extra pillows, because I never thought of the possibility of letting anyone share my bed. Like, it literally had never occurred to me that it might happen.

And I was so awkward around boys at parties. Boys somehow thought it was acceptable to just come at me from behind and start rubbing their crotch all over my ass when I was dancing with my girls—and even sometimes when I wasn't anywhere near the dance floor! It was disgusting. If a boy was cute enough, Tara wouldn't say anything and would start dancing with him. But for me, I always turned them around and said I wasn't interested, no matter how attractive they were.

Plus, I didn't have any lacy bras or cheetah print underwear like Tara, or any sexy lingerie. I knew no one was going to see them, so what was the point of spending all that money on things that would just remain under my clothes always? I didn't have the spare cash. And when coupled with my meager amount of party dresses and outfits, that was enough for Tara to take pity on me and make me her fashion pupil.

Tara, the gorgeous olive-skinned, onyx-haired beauty, was a size 6 and I was a size 8, so most of her stuff fit me. I mean, her tops were tight on my boobs and her skirts and pants were tight on my hips and butt and her dresses were kinda tight anywhere, but Tara promised me I looked good and even sexy that way, so most of the time when I went out it was in her clothes. And in her shoes, since we luckily had the same shoe size. Tara came from money and worked in a vintage clothing store known for its rare designer finds, so she was perfectly capable of assisting me in my wardrobe problems.

And even though she never tried to, I knew without a doubt that she couldn't assist me in my boy problems. I didn't think anyone could.

And after six months wasting away at the boring Looney Tunes New Orleans store, I realized I couldn't fix my work friends problems. It got to the point where I dreaded going into work and wished I could call in sick or swamped with homework, but I never did. So I finally quit in February because I really didn't like anyone there and I wasn't having fun anymore.

I didn't text Eric to tell him the news.

Turns out he wouldn't find out about it, from me at least, because he wasn't on Facebook. I found that out when I put in my end dates for working at Looney Tunes and updated my job position as a waitress at the All-Nighter, a bar I worked as a waitress, a job I'd gotten about a week after quitting Looney Tunes.

I wasn't in the habit of stalking him on Facebook, especially now that he hadn't "liked" any of my posts or statuses in months, and I realized with horror that I couldn't remember the last time I "liked" something of his, or even saw him in my mini-feed.

So after I edited my Facebook profile, I decided to look up Eric and see if he was working at Looney Tunes still. But when I typed up his name in the "search" box, nothing came up. Facebook was suggesting Eric Northmans who lived in Montana and California, not the one I had already been Facebook friends with who lived in Louisiana.

I went to my friends list—maybe he changed his name? But now I wasn't friends with any Eric's. I wished I was the kind of person who actively kept track of all her Facebook friends, because then I would have known immediately when this happened.

People deleted their Facebook pages all the time, I told myself. No big deal. But after some searching, Pam and Amelia were still there. Only now Amelia was living in New Hampshire and dating some Tray Dawson—when did _that_ happen?—whereas Pam's profile hadn't changed at all, not one bit. Stan was now married to Isabelle, and had been for a month.

Everything and everyone had changed, and much too quickly. I knew I was a part of it, but _still_.

It would be obvious if I tried to contact any of them asking about Eric—just like it'd be obvious if I randomly texted Eric asking what's up and why he got rid of his Facebook. I didn't interact with Pam and Stan and Amelia at all on Facebook, ever, and I didn't have their numbers.

So when I lost my phone at a party and had to get a replacement, I created a "Lost my phone and need your numbers" Facebook page that I, of course, couldn't invite him to join.

I couldn't help feeling depressed that my last link to Eric was broken.

It was shocking to think that the only tangible things I had left of him were the picture from Record Store Day that was on the Shreveport Looney Tunes Facebook page and the list he'd made for me that I kept hidden in my desk drawer. I tried not to look at either of those items obsessively but it was hard.

And, of course, it was easier to go to my memories of Eric. There were lots of them, every single one of them happy and good and—worst of all—any of them could be accessed at any time, no matter where I was physically located. Their easy access proved troublesome to me.

So I forced myself to think of other things—I had lots of Facebook friends now, even though the only people who interacted with me on it were from Tulane. Hell, I had lots of real life friends now too.

And I was happy, happier than I would have thought possible. I was besties with my roommate Tara, and felt closer to her than I'd ever been with a girl before. I loved my classes and living in the city. I didn't love waitressing as much as I loved working at Shreveport Looney Tunes, but I liked it a lot more than working at New Orleans Looney Tunes, and not just because the pay was so much better thanks to my tips.

But I had to accept that a part of Shreveport Looney Tunes would always be with me, and it was very obviously Eric Northman-shaped.

...

**A/N: Just 'cause I'm always up for stuff like these ... listened to "Self Esteem" by the Offspring, "Come As You Are" by Nirvana, and "Believe" by the Bravery over and over again while writing this chapter. Messed up my Lastfm library stats, but I think it's worth it!**


	14. Acceptance

**A/N: Quick thanks to my beta chiisai-kitty for her top-notch editing and witty emails and to Charlaine Harris for making these characters!**

**...**

**SPOV**

But then I met a guy that was so unlike Eric that I couldn't help but notice him. His name was Alcide Herveux, and he was a sophomore business major from Jackson, Mississippi. He had dark hair and eyes and was as muscular and solid as Eric was slim-hipped and lean. Alcide wasn't crazy about music and was thoughtful and serious, always ready to laugh at my jokes but never make any of his own. Anti-Eric all around.

I met him on a Friday night in March when Tara's boyfriend at the time had a party at his apartment and I had offered to be the bartender in charge of making jungle juice and shots and collecting money. Alcide was there and started talking to me after ordering a round of Jell-O shots for his friends, and when the line got too long he surprised me with his own bartending skills and helped me deal with the rush. He ended up helping me for the rest of the night and we talked when we had the time, bonding over how we were both implants in this great big city and him giving me tips he'd found out his freshman year.

And because of our conversation and the fact that he didn't look at my boobs once, when he asked for my number at the end of the night, I gave it to him. He seemed like the perfect guy to try the boy thing out with since he was the opposite of the boy I could have done it with.

Alcide didn't even try to kiss me after our first date, which was a week later when he took me to a little Cajun restaurant I'd never been to before. He brought me there because he thought I'd like it, which I did, as well as our conversation and just, well, _him_.

That night we both realized we were in the same Philosophy 101 class, and the next day, and many more after that, we started sitting next to each other in the big lecture hall, gossiping about the professor and comparing notes. We started going out for coffee before class and dinner at the dining hall afterwards, just the two of us, and I found myself looking forward to Tuesdays and Thursdays, when the class was.

It wasn't until our third date (three weeks, five coffees, three cafeteria dinners, and six classes after first meeting him at the party) that he kissed me, and while it didn't make my lips hum like Eric's one kiss did, it was still pretty damn good, enough to make my body go warm.

It was like old-fashioned dating

In fact, Alcide didn't even ask me to stay over at his apartment (he had his own, but it was much nicer than mine because Alcide's dad owned a successful construction company) until two months after we first started dating. And that night we didn't even do anything besides make out, and he touched my breasts for the first time over my tank top. He didn't press me for anything more. He had every right to, in this day and age, and he was already taking it really slow with me with the dates, since that was unheard of (according to the resident love-guru, Tara).

He knew I had a story, that there was a reason I was like this, and when he asked me in June, a month after he helped me move into my tiny off-campus two-bedroom apartment with Tara that we rented for the summer and upcoming school year (I was spending the summer waitressing at the bar and Tara was still working at the vintage store), and I said I wasn't ready, he didn't push.

It wasn't until July that I finally felt comfortable enough to talk to him about Bill. He held my hand the whole time I cried, and when I finished he hugged me tightly and said we'd wait until the right moment.

Gradually we got there at the beginning of August. After weeks of sexless sleepovers and heavy petting, I finally told him I was ready. He was slow and patient, and when I closed my eyes as he hovered over me, he stopped and pulled out and asked if I was okay. I had a flashback of Bill, and for a second I was there, but then I wasn't and it was Alcide, sweet Alcide, and I brought my lips to his and kissed him as I boldly reached down to guide him back in.

I didn't orgasm when he did, that time. Alcide was very experienced, and I think it got to him that he couldn't make me come. But he went down on me, and after telling me to relax and calm down and not tell him five times that I was fine, it was okay, and he didn't have to do _that_, I ended up having my first orgasm. And then later I'd have many, many more, and I'd give many to Alcide too; he was very good in bed, guiding and showing me always what do to with my hands and my mouth.

Alcide thought he was helping me get rid of Bill. And while that was true, he was also unknowingly helping me get over Eric.

I always thought it was so ironic I got Alcide because of how Eric had shaped me, that we met the night we tended bar together. But I didn't tell Alcide that.

He didn't really ask that much about Eric and Looney Tunes, so I didn't tell him much. It was like how I didn't ask him about his ex-girlfriend that he'd been with for most of his freshman year, Debbie Pelt. He had told me about her on our fourth date and said he was still hung up on her and hurting that she cheated on him—which was why he was so willing to take it slow with me.

To be honest, I kind of liked that he was just as flawed as me. It took so much of the pressure off. We both came with our baggage, and we both tried to get rid of it.

I thought I was doing a good job on my end. At the beginning of my sophomore year, I felt so ridiculously comfortable in my skin now I wasn't always reminded of Bill when I had sex with Alcide (no comment on whether that was true for Eric—it was easier to imagine taking a chance with him now that I was secure enough to be doing it, even with another man).

Plus, it was so much easier to be at a big college in a big city than at a tiny high school in a small town where everyone was both the judge and the jury. At Tulane, the class size was so big that only a fraction of it knew who I even was, and no one was aware of my history. I think I blossomed because of that.

Because all in all, I felt better than I had in a while, and I looked better too. I didn't gain the freshmen 15, but I didn't lose it either—at least, not at first. But working and studying had been stressful so I knew I'd lost some weight. I didn't know how much but I knew where—my face had defined cheekbones now and looked more angular, and my stomach didn't move around as much. There was still a little pouch, and even though it was fine with me and it was fine with Alcide I still did my crunches and went to the gym with him (it was kind of like our thing, since Alcide turned me on to working out). And then later it wasn't there at all, though neither of us acknowledged it.

Because at that point, neither of us was talking much.

Debbie was back in the picture; she was in a lot of Alcide's classes and was pushing to hang out with him outside of them. And Alcide was letting her. There were times I felt like he brought her into the bedroom—which was already crowded because Eric was in there with me.

I didn't cry in October when Alcide said he was back in love with Debbie. I was a little relieved. It had gotten boring after a while—he had gotten boring. I was sick of not going to concerts because he didn't like the bands I wanted to see, and even going to parties with him had lost the appeal for me because Debbie always showed up at them, flaunting her newest man at him, at us.

I never answered Alcide when he asked why I didn't hate him. I knew he was physically faithful to me because he was too much of a nice guy, but he was emotionally cheating on me with Debbie and at that point I was emotionally cheating on him with Eric.

Eric—who was older than me, just like Alcide, but he was ten times more fun. Eric—who was always up for anything new I wanted to try and probably would have danced like a maniac at the concerts I dragged a motionless Alcide to. Eric—who was funny and lively and curious and just, I don't know, _Eric_.

I found that now it was easy to wonder what would have happened if I took Eric up on his offer. I don't know what it would have been like, in the beginning at least. He would have had to bring his own pillow then—but now, in my new apartment and new bed I had brought a pillow from home for Alcide to use and I kept it there once he moved his stuff out. I was ready.

I probably would have gotten to the healing process with Eric sooner, probably, but that wasn't why whenever I read celebrity interviews where they were asked about their biggest regret, I always thought of my own biggest regret: Eric's impassioned speech in my car and how I responded to it. _Always_.

My missing him had turned into something bigger and stronger and more potent, to the point where I really wasn't so depressed by the breakup.

But I let Tara do the breakup things she thought I had to do—go shopping, eat raw cookie dough, get a haircut, watch movies only because of the hot leading man, give each other makeovers. But really, they helped her more than they helped me. Eric could have helped me.

Alcide had kept most of our mutual friends because most of them were his to begin with, and that was cool, but Tara started being at home more, taking a break from boys, so I hung out with her a lot. And then the new bartender at work, biology junior Sam Merlotte, started becoming more of a friend, hanging out with me on campus and tagging along when Tara and I went out. He was nice and I kind of got the impression that he didn't have anything better to do, but I liked him.

Tara thought I should see a therapist for the break up—she was concerned I wasn't doing the proper mourning and five stages of grieving crap.

So I went and saw a therapist that was part of Tulane's student services department. I didn't have to pay for sessions, which was good because I went to a lot of sessions. But I only talked about Alcide at two or three of them.

Dr. Crane—Claudine, she told me to call her on the first meeting—was a Godsend. Her specialty was in relationships, and even though Bill hadn't been in a relationship with me, we talked a lot about him. And it was therapeutic. It actually worked, talking to someone about it.

She was the one who encouraged me to tell Tara. She said if I held it in, I was letting it define me—and she was totally right.

But I didn't tell Tara about Eric, even though I talked almost as much about him as I did of Bill at my sessions.

Claudine knew everything about Eric. We talked a lot about him too, and I was glad she didn't pass judgment on me that he was my boss and I was his coworker, or that he was older than me.

When she asked me if I regretted turning him down, I said not then, but I did now. I said I wished there was a way I could move on from him, and she said I'd have to see him in person to do it.

It's funny she thought I needed to see Eric in person to get over him, and didn't recommend that for Bill. I thought it was because I knew where Eric was and how to contact him, since I hadn't tried to keep tabs on Bill like I had for Eric.

So of course Bill was the one I ended up seeing first.

I was home for Christmas break of my sophomore year when I saw Bill's old booger green Oldsmobile in the parking lot of the local Grabbit-Qwik gas station and convenience store. I almost caused a car accident when I slammed on the breaks and did an illegal U-turn right there. Luckily it was Bon Temps and no one else was on the road.

I parked my car far away from his—my bright yellow Datsun was as recognizable as his vehicle. I could see he was inside, paying at the cash register for something, and I ducked behind one of the poles out front so I was facing the parking lot and not the store.

My heart was beating so loudly I thought for sure he'd be able to hear it when he walked past me, but he didn't. He didn't even notice I was there, but I noticed him—he had the same brown haircut and was wearing the same gray Henley and khaki pants I was used to seeing him have on in high school. He was probably wearing the same loafers.

"Bill Compton," I said, stepping out.

He turned around to see who called his name, and when he saw it was me his eyes bugged. "Hello, Sook—"

He didn't get to finish my name because I punched him hard in the nose like I was shown to in the self-defense class Claudine recommended I take. I really liked that class—went to every meeting on Wednesdays—and I had learned a lot in it. Like how to break someone's nose, because I was pretty sure I had just broken Bill's.

"That's for what you did to me," I growled, watching his hands fly to his face to try and stop the bleeding, which there was no way he could do based on the amount of blood gushing out.

When his eyes closed in pain, I kicked him in the crotch _hard_, making sure I made contact with his goods. He scrunched up his eyes even more as he doubled over, both bloody hands on his crotch.

It kind of looked like he had his period.

"And that's so you can't do it to any other girls," I said, kicking him again.

He was whimpering now.

"Have a nice life," I told him, and walked back to my car.

I didn't tell Tara about that when I came back to school. But I did tell Claudine, and she was so ecstatic she'd hugged me. But her face fell when she asked if my empowerment had caused me to feel confident enough to go to Looney Tunes and I told her no—I lied and said that I didn't think I needed to. Still, she said she was proud of me and I was moving forward.

I was amazed that I felt radically better after beating up Bill. It was a week after I did that when I had my first official college hook-up with the quarterback of Tulane's football team, JB Du Rone.

Everyone knew who JB Du Rone was, even on a campus as big as Tulane. He was as famous for his post-win keggers as he was for his last-minute Hail Mary passes that kept creating reasons for his keggers. He was handsome in a typical quarterback-Ken way—blond hair, blue eyes, big muscles, and a dimple that was practically carved into his cheek. JB had the manners of a Southern gentleman even though he was a bit dim-witted, and he showed me this the first time I met him.

It was at one of his parties in his backyard (he lived in an apartment right off campus, like most sophomores did) in late January; Tara wanted to go to because Eggs, the wide receiver she'd been crushing on, invited her there. I had gone with Tara, and Sam was supposed to come after he finished his shift at the All-Nighter and meet up with us.

I don't know when Sam made it to that party, but when he did, it was probably when I was in JB's bedroom, making out with him on his bed.

It started when Tara was off getting busy with Eggs in a coat closet, and I was standing by the keg getting harassed by a drunken frat brother in a lacrosse pinny who was trying to get me to come home with him when I clearly didn't want to.

Cue JB.

He'd swept in, told frat brah off, and apologized to me on behalf of his gender. He was so sweet and charming that I told him my name and other details you give to someone you just met at a college party.

It was when he boyishly asked me if he could kiss me that I decided I would let him do more.

To me, it was the perfect test situation. JB was a football player who just wanted to have a little fun and didn't want to be tied down. And that was exactly what I needed.

"This is your place, right?" I asked as he kissed my clavicle. We were still in the backyard, in our own secluded corner of the fence, and I was ready for more.

"You bet, darlin','" he said, looking up at me and showing dimple. "You wanna see my room?"

"I wanna be in your bed," I told him. And he took my hand and got me in his room so fast I practically stumbled in it, he was dragging me so fast.

After making sure JB had tested clean, I took no time shimmying out of the black mini and sequined silver tank I was in, and JB took off his jeans and tank top once he saw what I was doing.

The sex was good—very good. JB had known what he was doing and he brought me to orgasm twice, a number I made sure he had too, but the whole thing felt different, weird-different, than any time I'd had with Alcide.

It was mechanical, almost, for me—kiss here, suck like this, touch him like that, raise my hips this way. Sure, it brought me pleasure, but only carnal pleasure. It felt weird calling out his name—I used "Oh God" or "Jesus" more than "JB."

And I felt like I only got to know or like JB when it was all over and he had gotten up to throw away the used condom in the bathroom and silently brought me back a wet washcloth. This was that post-sex awkwardness Tara had told me about so many times.

After that I got dressed and kissed him before leaving to go downstairs—he'd asked if I wanted to spend the night, but I couldn't. The party was just winding down and I didn't find Tara or Sam so I just walked the five minutes back to my apartment with JB, who had insisted on walking me home at the very least. He kissed me good night and said he'd see me at his next party, hopefully, and I just smiled and said maybe.

Tara and Sam were watching TV in the living room when I opened the door. Tara was surprised and said she thought I'd be sleeping over at JB's, and when I slyly remarked that you don't always have to spend the night, she got up, hyperventilating, and hugged me. She knew this was my first hookup. Sam, who had been there observing the whole time, didn't say anything except that it was getting late and he should go home. Tara and I were so busy squealing we didn't even notice.

And that was that. I could do it—I didn't want to do the whole random hookup thing, because I still believed in only sharing myself with someone who would fully appreciate it—but I had gotten my stigma out of the way so I had the option. A couple days later when I saw JB on my way to class and waved at him, I didn't feel any regret or shame. I felt proud of myself for overcoming my sexual problems.

I had finally moved on and pushed Bill out of my life. And I was on the way to moving on and pushing Eric out of my life too.

…

**EPOV**

Because things had gotten back to normal at Looney Tunes and we had, for lack of a less-punny term, found our groove, I started being more involved at Bloodhound. It was a decision made mostly for two reasons, and only one of them was because I wouldn't be that reminded of Sookie there. The other reason was for money.

I started to bartend there, more frequently once I found I picked up _a lot_ of tips—and a lot of phone numbers, and a lot of girls, but mostly a lot of tips. Like, three hundred dollars a night just in tips. Maury, the owner, said he'd never seen anything like that (and also that none of the girls had ever seen a bartender like me).

Working at Bloodhound was good for me.

For starters, I met a lot of women there, and fucked some of them. Pam saw it as a good thing—that I was fucking Sookie out of my system. And I guessed I was, because I saw them all as distractions, but very, very pretty ones.

But then when I met Aude, a hot Swedish au pair, at the bar, I stopped. Because at first, she was all the distraction I needed. And then slowly, after I took her out on three dates (all of which ended in some really great sex, but they were still technically dates), she became less and less of a distraction until she wasn't one at all.

I could see why Pam was convinced she reminded me of Sookie—both had blonde hair and blue eyes and big boobs and were funny and sweet. But Aude was also loud and blunt and look-at-me, and, holy shit, did she love to talk dirty to me in the bedroom, so she definitely wasn't like Sookie for those reasons. Aude got along great with Pam—which made sense, because they were both larger-than-life and said whatever was on their mind—and Stan and Isabelle liked her the few times we all went out together.

Things were great, even though Aude was kind of a handful. We were just casually dating, nothing big, and she didn't drop any hints about moving in or anything. She was a good time gal who was always up for going out to bar or to a show with me, and even though she didn't know some of the bands I took her to see, she was very game and always had fun. I thought it was cute when she had to ask me what certain idioms were.

And best of all, she was very liberated in the bedroom and around the house when Greg wasn't there—she was a sexy Swede, after all. My sexy Swede.

Aude was a health freak, running five miles a day on the weekend sometimes. It was also under her influence that I joined her gym and started lifting regularly while eating the high-protein diet she designed for me (she even had those Swedish bars that made you gain a lot of weight like in that _Mean Girls_ movie). It gave me something to focus on, a goal to obtain, and I liked that going to the gym and eating protein shakes afterward was a thing I did with Aude.

It was very easy dating her; even though it only lasted three months before she found a new guy, it was a huge step for me. I was even sad that she left me, but she was easier to get over than Sookie. When I saw Aude at the gym sometimes, I never felt the urge to run and hide; she always hugged me and asked if I was still following that diet and did I need more of those bars?

And usually I did. Because, slowly, I began gaining weight and muscles, and I was amazed at how my shoulders and arms rounded out and I didn't look as thin and scrawny. Now it looked like I owned my height, instead of my height owning me. The best part was when Pam saw me for the first time in a couple of weeks and, after giving me a loud wolf whistle, said even she would do me.

My new look was not wasted on straight women either.

But I also liked Bloodhound because I made a lot of money there, which I was even more determined to save for my bar dreams. I had some saved, and Pam already had her half. I just needed a couple more grand.

And surprisingly, when I went home for a week in April and told my dad that I was getting close to opening my own bar, he offered to put up the rest I needed. I really didn't want to take my dad's money, but it was such a big gesture on his part I knew I'd fuck things up with him if I refused. I never had a great relationship with my dad, who had made a hobby in the past out of telling me I was refusing to grow up by playing in a band and then working at Looney Tunes.

But because he smiled and hugged me when he heard I'd soon be a small business owner, I took his money. And I was glad I did.

Since we had the finances now, I let Pam go off and do her thing in New Orleans about finding investors. That was her side—I was in charge of finding venues. And I also checked out a lot of local bars and music clubs to get a feel for what the community was like. I never saw Sookie at any of them, though.

Actually, sometimes I'd walk in one of those places and there'd be someone who wanted to drink a beer or smoke a cigarette with me—Looney Tunes alumni. They were very helpful when talking to me about location and prices and shipment sizes and customers.

Once a Looney Tune, always a Looney Tune.

At least, that's what Stan told me on my last day of work there in January. He was the person I was really going to miss the most, not from Looney Tunes Shreveport, but Shreveport in general. Though I was one of his groomsmen in his wedding to Isabelle, our bromance only grew stronger, and we promised ourselves we wouldn't lose it when I moved (it didn't help that this was a sentiment I had made to Sookie when she was the one leaving to go to New Orleans).

Because Pam and I had finally got our shit together and picked a great location in one of the more up-and-coming sections of the city, one where there weren't ten Starbucks in the neighborhood (only two). The place we found actually used to be a burlesque club, which was really cool even though that made it a bit of a fixer-upper.

So I officially quit Shreveport Looney Tunes, but Sophie-Anne made sure to tell me I would always have a job at the company, and could even work a couple hours a week processing orders and managing the EBay accounts, which I intended on doing. And one of my friends at headquarters, Melody Nelson, had found me this great two-bedroom apartment four blocks away from the bar that one of her friends used to live in before she moved in with her boyfriend.

Once a Looney Tune, always a Looney Tune, right?

That settled, I threw all my weight into refurnishing and redecorating the place, obsessing over it just like I had with getting the Shreveport Looney Tunes up and running. I was having more fun with this one, though, because it was my place I was designing with complete artistic control, not Sophie-Anne's. And even though she had surprised all of us by moving to Vermont with her new man, Tray Dawson, about a year ago, Amelia threw in a favor for me and asked her dad to help us out, cheap.

There was already minimal lighting leftover from the burlesque club, which I liked, and I kept the stage they'd put up, only now it would be for bands rather than exotic dancers. I put wood paneling on the walls and hung up all the autographed vintage band posters from the Looney Tunes archives that Sophie-Anne, in a surprisingly kind move, said we could put up since they weren't doing anything but sitting in storage. I was sure we were the only venue in town that had an autographed Kurt Cobain poster.

So we got top-notch construction work and great art for peanuts, and the place looked great. I was thrilled.

In a move that made Pam roll her eye, I went way over budget for alcohol—there were just so many options, both for drinks and glasses! But what I overspent on alcohol came from the food budget, since I still had money left over from buying pretzels and peanuts and nacho fixings in bulk.

And Pam was keeping up her end of the bargain; even though she still had her day job as a publicist for Looney Tunes HQ, she used all her resources and contacts to get some hype for the bar before it even opened. Soon I had offers coming in from tour managers and band publicists about setting up gigs, and the bands were all really good.

The bar—which we had called Area 5, after the zoning area we were located in—opened in March, with one of the biggest alternative bands in the local scene playing that first night. We sold out of tickets and went through a lot of drink and food. It was so hectic and chaotic that I was learning new things and adapting every single night. But I loved it. God, I loved it so much.

The people were great too. Not even a week after we opened, we already had regulars with regular drink orders and we knew each other's names—and our bar even had our own nickname now, A5. And it was all so a_wesome._

I really liked the people who came in. The bar was far away from any college campus in the city (Tulane included) that we wouldn't have any frat guys with shitty IDs stinking up the place—not that they would have gotten inside, since Pam had turned out to have a knack for being the bouncer, a position she absolutely loved.

Sookie would be a sophomore now, so not yet over 21, but she did have that fake…

But I barely had time to think about that—taking care of the bar was like being a parent with a newborn, probably, and I got maybe two or three hours of sleep for the first two weeks there.

Of course, some of that was due to the dates I'd went on with local women who wanted to show me the sights, both out in the city and in a bed. But I always made sure we went out first before coming back in. And sometimes we just went out and I dropped them off at their apartment and I still had a great time and called them when I said I would. I was getting very good at dates.

In fact, I was named one of the city's hottest bachelors in a locally based New Orleans magazine—and had only been in business for a couple weeks! It made me wonder if Sookie had seen it. Others certainly had, and Pam loved to tease me about the increase of women who came in the bar after the article came out. I didn't care—more publicity for the bar. Because right now, it was all about the bar for me.

...

**A/N: PSA announcement that Sookie and Eric DO get together in this story! Any guesses how that will happen...?**


	15. Second kiss

**A/N: If you've been obsessing over these chapter titles as much as I have, then you know this is a good one. I'll keep it brief: love and thanks, as always, to my beta/cheerleader/friend chiisai-kitty. **

**...**

**S****POV**

Sam wanted to take me to a new bar called Area 5. He said it was supposed to be this great music venue and he had just turned 21 (almost a year before I would), so he said he was making up for lost opportunity. Bar crawls were his new thing. He wanted me to go with him to see this band he liked; I'd listened to them with him before and while they weren't bad, they weren't great either.

But Sam was so happy and persistent that I told him to pick me up at eight. The bar was far away enough to justify getting a cab, and Sam's fake looked pretty good so I thought we'd probably be able to get in.

I got dressed up to go to the bar as I always did to the ones in New Orleans that played good music. I had this stupid fantasy of seeing Eric as soon as I entered the bar. And though it was completely unrealistic, it didn't stop me from curling my hair and putting on more makeup than my usual eye shadow, mascara, and blush. I even wore lip gloss too—pink lip gloss.

My dress wasn't as fancy or sexy as ones I'd worn to bars before, but it was pretty, white with red flowers and spaghetti straps that were so tiny I had to wear my strapless bra. It was warm enough that I didn't have to worry about a cardigan, and if the bar wasn't so far away I would have suggested walking, since it was so nice outside. But we were taking a cab, so I borrowed Tara's red heels that clacked loudly on the street as Sam and I tried to find a taxi.

Sam complimented me on my dress and my matching red purse, but instead of making me feel good it made me feel guilty, as all his compliments did. Sam always told me how nice I looked and laughed at my jokes, and Tara swore up and down that he had a big crush on me. Deep down I knew she was right, and it was times like these that I wondered if I was taking advantage of him. I wasn't trying to—he always suggested going out. But then again, I always went with him. We'd only ever be friends, no matter how much he hoped (and would maybe later get the balls to try) to change it.

The bar didn't look very swanky when we pulled up in front of it—but it certainly looked packed. There was a line out the door, even, with a little blonde woman checking IDs outside. She was wearing a lot of leather, maybe to compensate for her Barbie figure and light blonde hair straightened down her back.

After paying the driver and helping me out of the car, Sam placed a hand on the small of my back as we walked to the curb. _It's because he knows I'm wearing high heels_, I told myself.

And then I did something that probably made him think I should wear flats for the rest of my life: I tripped over the curb when I got a good look at the woman checking licenses.

It was Pam.

"Oh my god," I whispered to myself.

I couldn't help feeling like tonight was the night—the night my fantasy came true. It had to. Area 5 was a new bar already well-known for its music scene, and Pam was at the door. That had to mean Eric was inside. It had to.

"What? Did you hurt yourself?" Sam said, completely oblivious. He knew about my record store past—just that Eric was my best friend there—but I never told him about Eric's dream of opening a bar in the city (or that we had kissed).

I didn't pay Sam any attention, just kept staring at Pam. He followed my gaze and asked what was wrong.

"Nothing's wrong," I answered, shrugging out of his reach and walking towards the door. He said something about going to the back of the line, but I paid him no mind, forcing him to catch up with me as I walked closer and closer to Pam, feeling giddier with each step.

It _was_ her. I'd know that smirk anywhere. She wasn't in a fancy suit or little black shift dress, but I'd bet her leather pants cost hundreds of dollars and were as designer as could be. I was well-versed enough in shoes now to know hers were Christian Louboutin, and I shook my head in disbelief.

I was close enough to her that people in line started to stare at me, obviously wondering if I was trying to cut them, and finally Pam picked her head up and looked at me, really looked at me, her charcoal-lined eyes widening but not as big as the blood red "O" her lipsticked-lips made.

It was her, all right.

"Sookie Stackhouse," she murmured, completely ignoring the person who was next in line. I quickened my pace and approached her with arms open—I knew she wasn't the most touchy-feely girl, but after more than a year and a half I thought I earned it. And I did.

"Adult looks good on you," she said after releasing me from the hug, and I twirled around in a circle for her, the skirt of my dress lifting up slightly.

"Dominatrix looks good on you, too," I told her, and she smirked.

"What are you doing here?"

"Came for the show," I replied.

"There'll be a show tonight, all right," she said.

I knew then I had to ask because she wouldn't come outright and tell me—she'd have thought that was too easy.

"This is your bar with Eric, isn't it?" I asked, and when she smiled widely I knew I did the right thing.

"Opened it a little more than a month ago. It's about time you found us."

"You could have called."

"So could you," she challenged.

Classic Pam. She hadn't changed a bit—but had I?

"Is he here?" I asked, suddenly using the timid voice I thought I'd left behind at Looney Tunes. Maybe I hadn't changed as much as I would have liked to.

"Yes, and to think he wasn't going to come in tonight," she said, rolling her eyes. "You've just given me terrific inspirational fodder for when I need to get him to go to the bar. Thanks."

She moved to the side to let me in, and I walked through the door. "I'm with Sookie," I heard Sam say to Pam, and I turned around, horrified I'd completely forgotten about him.

"Who are you?" Pam asked, sneering. "And I'll need to see some ID."

I frowned. That was uncalled for. Pam knew how old I was—that being, still underage despite how good adult looked on me—and she didn't ask to see my license. She wouldn't have carded me, I knew, but she could have asked to see it for appearances.

Well, at least she didn't make Sam wait at the end of the line.

"I'm Sookie's friend," Sam replied, taking out his wallet and then his ID.

"Friend, huh?" Pam said, turning to look at me. I nodded to tell her yes, he was just a friend. "Very well."

She handed him back his ID. "I'll find you later, Sookie," she said to me before she went to the next person in line.

"Wanna tell me what just happened out there?" Sam asked once he was through the door.

I ignored him—rude, I know—to scan the bar. It was pretty dim except for the area where the stage and instruments were set up. For now I was looking at the height of the shadows, knowing the one I wanted was approximately 6'4". But even after sifting through the bar's wide range of clientele, I couldn't find him.

Finally, I answered, "That was Pam, Eric's friend. And I think this is his bar."

"Eric from the record store? That guy?" Sam asked. I barely heard him.

_That guy_ wasn't behind the bar, which was the first place I looked. And he wasn't by the stage, which was where my gaze travelled next. He was in the last section of the bar I'd looked in, the booths, and he looked so different I almost didn't recognize him.

His hair was short, shorter than I'd ever seen it. It was slicked back with gel that made his hair shine even in the dim lighting. I could only see his profile from where I was standing, but as I walked towards him (Sam trailing wordlessly behind me) I could see he was wearing a smart black suit. I couldn't tell if it was the suit or my angle or fact, but his arms and shoulders looked a little bigger, like there were muscles there now.

He was holding a glass of something—brandy maybe, but it'd been so long since I was under his tutelage that I'd forgotten the exact height a brandy glass should be. There wasn't much left of the drink, even with his two-finger rule, so he must have been nursing it.

Eric was alone. I let out a big sigh of relief.

Though it was loud and noisy in the club, with the bass of the music playing over people talking to people they've probably seen many times in the past two years, I was scared Eric would be able to hear the pounding in my chest as I approached his booth.

I had to say his name to get his attention, twice; he was looking at the bottom of the glass like there was the answer to the meaning of life in there.

Eric looked up at me and made a face of recognition so obvious that I knew he knew who I was, and I felt like I was eighteen all over again, seeing him for the first time behind the counter in Looney Tunes. I was just as dumbfounded by his good looks now as I was almost exactly two years ago, and I was sure in a few moments I'd feel just as stupefied by his charm and wit and humor.

Whenever I thought about running into Eric again, I always wondered whether the magnetic pull between us would have disappeared. It should have—enough time had passed that it would have been understandable if the attraction had faded. But no, at least for me, it was still there, the renewed intensity sizzling all through my veins leading right to my thumping heart. I could only hope he felt the same

Despite the year and a half of separation, I remembered his smile and how I always reacted to it. When it was directed at me, and only me, I always felt a little woozy, still did after all these months, and I remembered how hard it used to be to look away from those bright blue eyes when they sparkled, as I could see they were doing now, even in the dark.

"Holy shit," he said, slamming his drink so hard on the table it made a loud clunk. He chuckled a little disbelievingly, eyes raking up and down my body, taking me in like I was doing to him. "Sookie Stackhouse."

"Eric Northman," I said, watching him fold out of the seat. I could see now he was wearing a black button-down shirt under the suit, and it was unbuttoned enough to reveal a sliver of pale chest and a silver necklace with an anchor on it.

_"Of all the gin joints_, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine," he said, just loud enough that only I could hear it. He laughed and shook his head. "Get over here."

I was surprised he was actually talking to me, given the last time we had spoken (and the last time I knew of him being in New Orleans when he didn't try and contact me). But I didn't want to spoil the mood, so I walked into his outstretched arms and then it was like nothing changed.

He was still taller than me, bigger than me, and more muscular than me to make his hug feel like a Northman bear hug. And I could tell he hadn't changed his cologne—or his smoking habit—since the last time I was close enough to smell him.

Our hug was longer than typically acceptable—and if I knew Sam, longer than he'd have liked—but I didn't care, and judging by how tightly Eric was holding me, he didn't care either. This was a hug meant to make up for all the months we hadn't hugged, so of course it'd literally last thirty seconds.

"I can't believe you're standing here in my bar," he remarked when he let go of me.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me to come and stand here in your bar sooner," I told him.

He was about to say something in response, something I was sure would be witty and smart, but he stopped when he looked over my shoulder and then back at me, eyebrows raised to his hairline.

Sam.

"Eric, this is my friend, Sam," I explained, making sure to put extra emphasis on the "friend" part. "He's the reason I'm in your bar, actually; he wanted to see the band tonight."

"Hi," Sam said, walking up from the spot he'd been standing in a couple steps behind me. He stuck a hand out for Eric, which Eric accepted.

"I'm Eric, the co-owner of this bar," he told Sam.

This cocky, suave Eric I wasn't familiar with, but I liked him an awful lot. It was sexy, in an arrogant way.

"Eric? Eric Northman?" a woman called out, and Sam and I turned around to see a tall attractive brunette in a black pencil skirt and blue blouse walking over.

After shooting me and Sam a look, she turned to Eric and said, "It's me, Rebecca Latent. We spoke on the phone?"

"Of course. Thank you so much for setting up this interview for your article," Eric said, looking at her while he shook her hand and then glancing at me when he released it. "Please, have a seat."

He gestured to the opposite side of the booth, and when she walked there he turned to me. "You're staying for the band, yes?" he murmured, quickly.

I nodded.

He smiled, showing teeth. "Good. I'll find you once this is done. Don't you dare leave me now."

After a moment of lingering, he went back to the booth, and I looked at Sam and then at the bar. I'd need a drink after that to calm my nerves and prepare myself for the next big one-on-one moment with Eric.

"What was that all about?" Sam asked, following me to the bar and letting me have the one available bar stool.

The bartender came by and I ordered my drink—a gin and tonic.

I almost went with a Tom Collins, in celebration of the drink Eric had picked out for me the first time we were at a bar together, but I thought the gin and tonic was a mature version of the Tom Collins. Besides, two years ago he'd said the drink didn't go down like a Tom Collins, so he didn't think I could have handled it. He was right, of course, but I could handle it now and I wanted him to notice. And if I knew Eric, he'd definitely notice.

Sam ordered a beer—a Bud Light. He usually ordered it and I never cared, but I was suddenly glad Eric wasn't taking our drink orders (though I did wonder why he wasn't behind the bar—was that just for the interview?). I knew what he'd think of Sam's beer choice, just like I already knew what he thought of Sam: that he wasn't anything special.

Once the bartender moved to get our drinks, Sam took a step closer to me, his hand on the table shielding me from the person sitting next to me. "Well?"

"That was Eric," I said.

Even hearing it out loud didn't make it feel any more real: that was Eric. I was in Eric's bar. I had just been talking to Eric. Soon I'd be doing it again with Eric. Now I'd know where he was and how to contact him. Now I could contact him without it being weird and random. Now I could _be _with him without it being weird and random.

"I thought you guys were just friends," Sam said accusingly.

"We were," I told him.

Just like old times, I had to defend our relationship. Only this time I'd used the past tense: we _were_ friends, versus we _are_ friends. If Eric had heard this, he would have picked up on it—Pam too, probably. But I knew Sam wouldn't.

"So what was that?"

The bartender came, and Sam tried to pay for our drinks. But I had my money out sooner and paid for my own. Now it felt wrong letting Sam buy me a drink (in Eric's bar, no less) after he paid the cab fare, and if we'd gone to any other bar owned by any other man I wouldn't have cared.

"That was me not seeing Eric for almost two years," I replied, trying my drink. I'd never had a gin and tonic before this, but it was good. Stronger than a Tom Collins, though, but I could handle it. I would handle it.

I felt like I was being a huge bitch to Sam, but this was Eric. Eric Northman. I felt old enough and mature enough to want to start something with him that would make us more than friends—make all those predictions and theories from two years ago come true. And I wanted him to see I wasn't a skittish little girl who blushed and stammered whenever he thoughtfully brought me my purse when my shift ended.

It was stupid that I was willing to put everything aside for Eric even though I hadn't seen him in so long. But it was also true, unfortunately for Sam.

"You never told me you slept with him," he said, clumsily fishing for information.

I wanted to tell him to give it up, but instead I said, "That's because we never had sex."

"Really?"

Sam's eyes bugged. He didn't know about Bill or Eric, and had seen me after I hooked up with JB, but I still didn't know why he felt the need to ask me if I had fucked Eric—and ten seem so surprised when I said I hadn't.

"Yeah. Why is that so surprising?"

He took a sip of his beer. "It seemed like you two had a lot of sexual tension."

Sam was picking up on something, for once.

"We kissed, but only one time. And we had huge crushes on each other, but I was too young and he thought he was too old, and I was still hung up on some things so it never amounted to anything until it was too late," I said truthfully, giving him the shorthand version.

Even that proved to be too much for him. Eyes narrowed, Sam replied, "You never told me that."

"You never asked," I said simply.

Sam never really asked about the record store; he saw it as just a job I had once, and that Eric was just a co-worker I did shifts with. He was so far off in his personal assessment.

The woman seated to my right moved, and Sam went and took her spot. He sat as I did, staring in front of us. I could tell he was getting a little pissy—though if it was because of Eric or the change of heart I'd obviously had since meeting him, I didn't know. I hoped this wouldn't spoil the concert for him.

After a few minutes of his almost silence, I felt a warm hand on my shoulder and looked to see Eric behind me, on the side farthest away from Sam.

"Thanks for waiting," he said, keeping his hand on my bare shoulder, his touch warming me. "Although you shouldn't have paid for your gin and tonic."

"It's fine," I told him.

He smirked down at me, his white teeth shining as brightly as his eyes. "The drink or the fact that you bought your own?"

God, I missed this banter. I missed Eric.

I smiled, making sure he could see it even though my lips were on the glass I was just about to take a sip of. "Both."

Eric smirked at me, watching me swallow. And then he turned to Sam, who was obviously monitoring us, and said to him, "You're a fan of the band, right? Want to meet them?"

"What?" Sam said, surprised. I wasn't expecting that either.

"Yeah, they're in the backroom hanging out until their set starts. Come on, I'll introduce you."

Sam looked at me, wondering if this was a trap. "Okay," he said, getting off his seat, and once I finished my drink from the bar I got up too.

Together we followed Eric through a door to the left of the stage down a long corridor, and when he opened the door at the end of it and let Sam in I stayed out in the hallway, watching Sam's mood improve drastically as he started shaking the hands of the band members.

"That was nice of you," I said to Eric.

He was leaning against one side of the door frame and I was doing the same on the other. The damn necklace with the anchor was right in front of my eyes, taunting me because it could rest against Eric's chest when my face or hands couldn't.

"He seems to like this band almost as much as he likes you," he dryly remarked. I gave him a stern look and he acknowledged it with a shrug. "And please don't think it I did it to be nice. I did it to give me some alone time with you."

"What do you need alone time with me for?" I asked, the flirtatious tone as easy to understand as my English.

Eric needed to know that I'd grown up since Looney Tunes. I wasn't that girl anymore.

I'd been without his company for such a long time that I wasn't worried about jeopardizing our relationship with my flirting. Besides, I'd already gone without Eric Northman so I would be used to it, if something bad happened and we soured our friendship once again. And now that I'd finally gotten over my Bill-induced sexual hesitation, I had stuff I wanted to do to Eric, stuff I had wanted to do for a while. And I wanted him to know that.

"I haven't seen you in a year, shouldn't we be catching up or something?" he murmured, matching me in tone.

He was good at this game—this was the Eric I'd heard stories about, the one who picked up women in bars like normal people picked up dry cleaning.

Now I would get to meet him.

"We can start by having you make me a drink just like old times," I said, and he quirked an eyebrow.

"You'd leave lover boy behind?" he questioned, testing me.

My eyes flickered over to Sam and then back up at Eric, where they stayed. "For you? In a heartbeat," I answered honestly.

And though I wasn't "with" Sam (and technically wasn't "with" Eric either) it was absolutely true. It was heartless, but Sam would never have my heart—if the fast pace it was pumping now was any indication, it belonged to the person who always stood just a little too close to it: Eric Northman.

He was raising that damned eyebrow now.

"We're just friends. Really." It was what I said to everyone back in Shreveport about us, but it was different this time and Eric knew it too.

"Well, all right then," he murmured, and he motioned for me to start walking with him back down the hallway. I knew Sam would be happier with the band and followed Eric without any hesitation.

Instead of taking me to the bar like I thought he would, Eric took me to another hallway, this one closer to the booths. He opened a door and motioned for me to go in first, and I was reminded of the time he showed me his room. Once again I was thankful for his gentlemanly ways because it let me check out the room without his knowledge.

In a lot of ways, it was like his bedroom back at that house he probably didn't live in anymore—simply decorated, but still a little cluttered. He had mahogany flooring that matched his large, crowded desk, and the walls were a beautiful maroon. Behind his desk was a bookshelf full of recipe books and books about starting your own bar, and the bottom shelves had binders with little descriptions on them I couldn't read from where I was standing.

I realized the same posters on the walls were the ones that had adorned his side of the office at Looney Tunes, and it made me smile. Maybe there was still a part of Looney Tunes in him too.

"Sit," Eric said, closing the door behind him, but when he said it he motioned to the black leather couch, not the wooden chairs in front of his desk.

I obediently walked to the couch and sat at one side of it. Instead of following, Eric walked over to a table on the side of the room with a decanter full of whiskey; he put ice cubes in two small glasses and then poured the drink in them. When he came back to the couch he handed one to me and then sat down next to me, crossing his legs as he faced towards me, his arm on the top of the couch going towards me. I was sitting forward, but I arranged myself so I was leaning towards him now.

Our feet were almost touching, just like our bodies.

"Grown up drink for a grown up girl," he murmured, holding his glass out to me. "Cheers."

We clinked glasses—I knew he'd recognize the upgrade to the gin and tonic. But his toast was also a nod to the way I looked and held myself around him now.

Old Sookie would never have flirted as openly and unabashedly as I was—and if Old Eric had talked to me like New Eric was, Old Sookie wouldn't even know how to handle it without sputtering and blushing. Plus, I was revealing a lot of skin tonight.

The alcohol still burned a little in my throat, and then my whole body, but it didn't matter—ever since Eric brought me back here I was feeling a little flushed. Old Sookie wasn't _totally_ dead.

"So is now the part where I ask what you've been up to?" he said slyly, almost mockingly.

I took a sip to calm my nerves. I was going to go through with this, even if it cost me everything.

"I thought now was the part where you kiss me?" I proposed, sounding far more innocent than I should have.

His eyes bugged and I couldn't believe I had made Eric Northman speechless—a first for me, and a first for everyone, probably. Cool guy Eric didn't know what to say.

After a second, Eric picked his jaw up so he could smirk at me. "Maybe I _should_ ask what you've been up to, to make you be so bold. But right now, I don't care."

As he said that, he was leaning closer to me, his eyes on my lips, drinking them in like the thirty-year-old Scotch he'd just taken a sip of. He was gazing so ardently he'd soon be drunk off of my lips before he even kissed them.

I could taste his passion just as much as the whiskey and whatever minty gum he'd been chewing before that. And I could feel his longing through the hand tenderly cupping my cheek as he opened my mouth with his tongue and slid it in to play with mine.

I wished neither of us were holding a glass so we could fully touch each other, memorizing the texture of the hair we'd always seen but never touched or the shoulders only briefly felt during hugs or pats.

Still, the kiss was worth all the fantasizing I'd done over the years—better than, even, because it was real.

…

**EPOV**

Despite all the times I'd thought about the probability of little Sookie Stackhouse walking into my bar, I _never_ expected to end up in my office making out with her not twenty minutes after she first came in.

Yet here we were. College had been good to her.

If_ this_ had been the Sookie that walked into my store all those years ago, there was no way I would have given her a job. Instead, I'd have given her my phone number, maybe a drink or two, and, later, a good fuck—and that would be all I'd ever know about her.

Even now something stupid in my mind was screaming at me to stop, to ask Sookie who she'd been with to make her this fearless and daring and so wildly comfortable in her own skin. Whoever he was, I could thank him and then immediately kill him so he wouldn't be around her ever again; even that little boy she brought tonight was included, obviously. I had no right to be jealous, since I had kissed many women since Sookie, but that didn't stop me.

It irked me a little that Sookie now knew how to kiss, really kiss—that she had allowed someone to get to know her and show her how to use her plump lips, how to suck on a bottom lip like that, how to bite the top one just so. But whoever he had been, he knew what he was doing. This kiss was nothing like our last one—but Sookie was nothing like that Sookie and who knows, maybe I had changed as well and was nothing like that Eric.

Sookie had made me realize something about myself, even though she didn't mean to, and I appreciated the irony of a high school student teaching someone more than six years her senior about life. I still had my fair share of one-night stands (I did own a bar, after all), but I had a lot more dates now that didn't include (just) drinks and sex. I was twenty-six, after all; it was time to grow up. I was proud to say that now when a girl called on my phone, I put memories to her name, not _just_ a face or a body.

But the feeling of Sookie's soft skin (which almost felt like silk, but silk didn't get goose bumps, now did it?) was making me forget about all of them, even with the progress I'd made over the years. And Sookie's tongue? It almost made me forget our history, her name, my name, this bar's name—hell, even this _planet's_ name.

I stopped the kiss, and Sookie looked at me wide-eyed, panting, confused, her lips red and a little swollen from all the attention I'd given them.

Wordlessly, I took her glass from her hand and placed it on the floor next to mine. When I straightened, I looked right at her and remarked, "Now, let's do this properly," and started kissing her again, and I could feel the corners of her mouth lifting as she smiled during our kiss.

I smiled too because, what the hell? This was happening, she was letting this happen, I was making this happen, and it should have occurred long ago but it didn't and now it was.

Making full use of my hands, I touched everywhere on Sookie that I could—it was heady enough knowing I could do this now, that I could trace the outline of her neck and the part where it connected to her shoulders with my finger. When I played with her straps I noticed the absence of ones for her bra, and I wondered if she was wearing one; with her now, anything was possible.

She was using her hands as her eyes to memorize my shoulders, my back, my scalp and my hair. Everything she touched burned under her caress and then immediately cooled when she moved onto the next place.

"I can't believe this is happening," she murmured into my skin, gifting my jawline with small kisses.

"I know," I gasped, my head thrown back as she moved down my neck, this time with hot open-mouth kisses.

"I've thought about this before," she admitted, going back up my neck and biting a little, nipping at my skin. My hands tightened in her hair and relaxed when she was back at my mouth, her tongue lazily tracing my bottom lip teasingly before finally slipping inside.

In between kisses I told her I've thought about it too. Lots of times.

But now it was _happening_. Now I was sitting on a couch having my face kissed off by Sookie and, my God, it was _happening_. She was _happening_. This was _happening_.

_We were_ _happening. _

I felt Sookie's phone vibrating in her purse, and I reluctantly stopped kissing her and shifted my body so she could get it. I had a sneaking suspicion who it would be.

"It's Sam," Sookie said, looking at the screen and confirming it. She had an iPhone now—did her number change? After glancing at me, she did something on the phone and held it to her ear.

"Hello?" she answered, taking the call.

Mumble mumble. I didn't know what Sam was saying, but I was pretty sure it was something dumb.

"I'm, um, in Eric's office," she said.

More dumb mumbles.

"I don't know. Maybe."

I hated this guy.

"I'll be out in a minute," she said, and then hung up. Sookie looked over at me apologetically and apologized. "He wanted to know where I was."

"What else does he want?" I asked.

There was some shiny stuff smeared on Sookie's chin and I licked my thumb before tenderly wiping it off. My mom used to do it when I was a kid (when I had peanut butter or other sticky kid stuff on my chin, not lip gloss) and I was always embarrassed by it, but I didn't feel embarrassed doing to Sookie and she certainly didn't look mortified.

"He wanted to know if I was going to watch the band with him, since they're going to play soon," she admitted, eyes on the floor.

I looked at my watch—yep, it was almost nine. I wasn't a big fan of the band, but of course I loved them now because they had brought Sookie to me.

"Are you?" I asked.

She looked unsure. "Now I don't want to, but I feel like I should."

"Don't. Stay with me." There was a gruffness in my voice I was unaccustomed to hearing, and I wasn't sure if I liked it. But it seemed to work on Sookie.

"I still have to tell him," she said, hitching a thumb towards the door.

"Tell him you're leaving with me," I urged, leaning closer to her now, nibbling on her earlobe, then her jaw, then kissing my way to her lips. "Tell him you're with me now. That you're mine for the night," I breathed the words into her open mouth, making sure she took them in before I kissed her.

We made out until her phone rang, again. Jesus Christ, _this kid_. He was dead to me.

Sookie ignored it, and I thought we could go back to kissing, but instead, she got up off the couch, careful not to step on or knock over our glasses.

"I need to tell him now," she said.

Sookie was making it seem like she was going to stay with me, leave with me, be with me now, be mine for the night. Was I being brazen, assuming Sookie would do all that? Was I being right, since she hadn't said no?

She was giving me an inch when I wanted a mile. I felt like now that she was the one putting the moves on me, now that she was the one making out with me and telling me she's thought about this before, it was okay. She wasn't a whore, but she definitely wasn't the prim little pilgrim she had been at Looney Tunes. I liked it. Lots.

I'd always wanted Sookie to make the first move. Not only would it be sexy as hell, but it'd show me she was ready for me, that she really wanted me. And now that she was finally initiating—and doing a hell of a job with it too—it was all I needed.

She gave me a hand off the couch. What else was more encouraging that someone extending a hand to you?

"Really?" I asked, accepting her help even though I didn't need it. She hadn't backed up to give me space once I was standing and her breasts were just barely touching my chest. The view was so, so nice from up here.

She smiled. "Yes, really. Where are you taking me?"

I hadn't really thought about that. I was so preoccupied with making sure Sookie didn't stay with that boy that I didn't think about what I would do with her once she was with me.

"I don't know. I want to catch up with you though—just the two of us."

"Is that code for something?" she flirted, tilting her head to the side.

I barked out a laugh. "It can be, later. But I'm serious. I want to know what you've been up to. Are you hungry?"

She shrugged. "Um, not really. I ate before I came here."

I wasn't hungry anyways, but thought a restaurant might be the quietest place to talk. I wanted to get Sookie by herself, away from the distractions. When the band started playing, it'd be too noisy in the office, and besides that I was sure Pam would do her best to interrupt us and come in to the room to ask a stupid question.

"Do you want to go back to my apartment?" I asked carefully.

I didn't know what the rest of the night would entail, but I lived by myself and it'd be the perfect place to go with Sookie. I didn't want it to seem too forward, but with this Sookie maybe it wasn't.

Who was I fooling? I wanted Sookie in my bed since the first time I saw her many long months ago.

"Sure," Sookie said agreeably. She stood on her tiptoes and softly kissed me on the lips. "But I really should tell Sam before we leave."

"Okay," I said. "I need to talk to Pam."

_To tell her she was in charge tonight in my absence. Because I was taking the night off. To be with Sookie._

We parted back at the club, Sookie to the right where the stage was and me to the left, where Pam was at the bar instructing the bartender, Ted, on something.

Upon hearing my footsteps, Pam turned to me, smirking. I knew that since she was at the doors she saw Sookie first and therefore had a lot of time to come up with things to say to me.

"Come on, get it over with so I can say what I want to say," I told her, waving my hand at her in a vague "go-ahead" motion.

"What's your excuse now?" she simply asked, surprising the hell out of me.

"What do you mean?"

"Before she was too young, too inexperienced, too much your employee. Blah blah blah. Now she's none of those, so I want to know, what's your excuse now?"

"I came over here to tell you I'm taking Sookie home with me," I proudly informed her, watching her become as surprised as I had been when I didn't get accosted with a snippy Pam retort earlier.

I was so close to telling Pam we made out on the couch, but that was going a little overboard.

"Congratulations, Northman. You finally got your balls back. Now go home and show them to her," she finally settled with.

I blanched. That was crude, even for Pam.

"Doesn't it bother you that she's still too underage to drink?" Pam asked seriously.

"Not when she's old enough to know what she wants," I answered. And now Sookie finally wanted me.

Sookie came over then—alone, thank God. And even though it was selfish because He had already helped me out just now, I prayed that she hadn't heard Pam's comment.

"Hi," Sookie said, walking up to the bar closest to where I was standing behind it. I loved that she automatically, possessively slipped her arm around my waist, coming up close to me.

"So we can leave now," I told Sookie, even though Pam had said no such thing

Pam rolled her eyes at me. "You could have asked."

I smirked at her. "I did. Sookie said yes."

Sookie laughed along with Pam, who just shook her head. "I'm ready to leave when you are," Sookie told me, leaning against me as she did it.

Technically, my laptop was in my office and there were invoices I should be bringing home. But who cared?

"Let's go then," I said, wrapping my arm around her frail shoulders.

"Use protection!" Pam called out to us.

I ignored it, and Sookie did too. I didn't even mention Sam on our walk to the door. It was nonessential and he was nonessential, as far as I was concerned.

"So where's your apartment?" Sookie asked when we were outside and I was leading her down the street, not attempting to call a cab or fish car keys out of my pocket.

"Couple blocks away from here. We can walk," I answered, bringing her closer.

"It's such a nice night out for walking," she remarked dreamily, looking up at the stars.

I laughed and kissed the top of her head.

"What?" she demanded with a grin, wanting to know what she had done to get that reaction out of me.

I shook my head as I looked down at her, smiling with one side of my mouth. "Nothing, really. It's just that we haven't seen each other in a year and a half and you're talking about the weather."

"It's really nice out though!" she protested, whining a little. But because she was a good sport, she laughed and changed the subject. "So, do you have a girlfriend?"

"No, not at the moment," I told her. "What about you? Any other lover boys I have to fight off?"

She shook her head. "Nope. Just that one and you did a number on him already."

_Good_.


	16. Second Gift

**A/N: Hi...yeah. I know. School is back and I can't write every day and update every other day. That's how it's gonna have to be. It's hard to get writing in, but I'm always head-writing about what's gonna happen next! And I know I'm kind of leaving you hanging and I'm sorry for that, but school and extracurricular activities have to come first. **

**A big hunk of THANKS to my beta chiisai-kitty for all her beta work and supporting :) **

**Oh. These characters are to me like the song "Eight Days a Week" is to The Rolling Stones: NOT MINE.**

…

It felt so, so unreal to me that Eric had his arm around my shoulder—that his hand tightened around my upper arm to bring me back to the sidewalk that one time I took a step into the street and a car was coming towards me.

It was Eric, but more than the Eric I was used to.

If I was back working at Shreveport Looney Tunes and was walking down the street with Eric somewhere and I stepped into the street before it was safe to do so, I just knew that he would have stuck a hand out and stopped me and saved me.

But that Eric wouldn't have kept his arm around me and started stroking my hair randomly and making little curls of the bottoms of strands using one big finger, as he was now long after we had crossed that street. He would have let go, not ever knowing how soft and thick my hair was, or how much I liked that he was doing that to me.

And back then I wouldn't have had my arm around his waist and I wouldn't have used it to bring him even closer to me, so our sides were pressed together. And I _definitely_ wouldn't have let my fingers brush against the opening of his front jeans pocket.

I had to stop comparing us. I wasn't the same Sookie and he wasn't the same Eric and we had both figured that out when we hooked up five minutes after seeing each other again, so I needed to stop thinking about the past if we were going to go ahead into the future.

Besides it was better to be college Sookie—I was sure of myself, and when I knew what I wanted (Eric), I went out and got it (and made out with it and left the bar with it and was currently holding hands with it when we walked to its apartment).

And it was because of my confidence that I was giddy with anticipation. Having the ability, the capability, the option, to do whatever I wanted to Eric and knowing that he would probably welcome it was thrilling. Dreams come true, literally.

Because sure, I had fantasized about seeing Eric again—about kissing him and having sex with him. Of course I did it. That's easy. That's expected.

Usually in my daydreams we had a little meet cute on the streets or in a bar when I was wearing my sexiest outfit on top of my sexiest lingerie and then BAM! we're in a bathroom stall or a dark alleyway and his hand is up my skirt and his tongue is down my throat and that was it. That was all I needed.

Never in my dreams of spying Eric across the room at a bar did I envision us then catching up or talking about people we used to know. But now that was what I wanted—needed—to happen in real life, in real time.

_Weird._

Five minutes ago I was making out with Eric on the couch (which, obviously, was fantastic) and now I wanted to know what he thought about owning his own bar or moving to the city. And after that I would make out with Eric some more, but _only_ after we caught up.

_So weird. _

But being with Eric didn't feel weird—which was weird, right?

I should have been thinking things like "Oh my God it's Eric!" and "Eric is touching with my hair I hope his fingers don't snag and get caught in a knot!" and "OH MY GOD IT'S ERIC!"

But instead of agonizing over the now, I was wondering about what we were going to be doing when we were at his apartment.

"Do you go to bars often?" Eric asked suddenly, sounding genuinely interested in my answer.

This was the first time we'd spoken since we confirmed that both of us were single and ready to mingle—with only each other—and he was asking me a vaguely-pickupish line like if I go to bars often?

I tilted my head to look up at him. "What?"

"I only ask because I did a lot when my bar was getting worked on—to check out the competition and get some ideas. Now I'm just thinking about what would have happened if we'd chanced upon each other earlier, at someone else's bar," he explained.

"I go to more bars than parties now, I think. Some of my friends have fakes and we go for margaritas at happy hour sometimes," I said. "But what do you think would have happened if we'd run into each other earlier?"

"Depends on how earlier it was," he answered, all mysterious and thoughtful.

But then it hit me, what he was getting at. He was wondering when I became so bold and comfortable to go home with him.

Geeze, what _would_ have happened if we'd run into each other earlier? What would have happened if he'd been at a bar I'd gone to with Alcide when we were together? What would I have done then—would I have left with Eric? Or what would have happened if I'd seen him while out with Tara?

I never daydreamed about randomly running into Eric while I was out somewhere with someone else. Funny how when I finally met him again it was when I was out with Sam.

"I guess you're right," I admitted.

After a moment, he said, "I feel like I should ask you how school's been and how you like your classes and things like that, but then I'd be just like some neighbor you see at a grocery store while you're home for break or an old teacher you randomly see."

He looked down to make sure I was paying attention. Of course I was.

Encouraged, Eric added, "And it's not like I don't care about what you've done with your life or anything, but I don't know how to ask you in a way that doesn't remind me of how annoying the adults were who asked me those questions in that way. And I don't want you to think of me like that."

"I won't," I promised.

"How do you think of me?" he hesitantly asked.

"It's kind of changed in the last twenty minutes, you know?" I replied, buying me time.

Eric just chuckled and kissed the top of my head. I was still getting used to the adorability of it, trying not to "aaawh" every time he did it.

"Yeah, I know. But in a good way," he agreed with me.

"Yeah, totally in a good way. Because the way I think of you has definitely changed since the last time I saw you," I offered, after a moment.

He grabbed onto my conversational life preserver. "What do you mean?"

"Well, the possibility of having a romantic relationship doesn't just seem like a far-off possibility anymore. It's a close possibility I'd be more than willing to explore."

"Me too. But before we do any of that, there are some things I need to know."

I could guess what he was going to ask. But still, I told him, "Sure. Ask away."

"I need to know—why now? What's changed in you to make you seriously consider me? Or is it what's changed in me too?" he asked, going right for the kill.

"Eric, I always considered you … just, not in any kind of way that might have become a reality. I liked you since the first time I met you, quoting Warren Zevon back and forth with you as I checked out your arms trying to see your tattoo. And the more I hung out with you, both at work and outside of it, the more I liked you, and the bigger my ginormous crush on you got. But, I was so unused to liking a guy that I was content with just doing that, and nothing else. I was so happy being your friend because that was all I knew we could be. And up until you kissed me, I was pretty sure that was all you wanted to be with me too, since you were so nice and friendly and observant to me and everyone else. "

I stopped to gauge his reaction—he was just staring at me, studying me like he was going to have to take a quiz on me later. Which, in a way I guessed, he was.

He nodded at me to continue. Inhaling before I spoke, I continued, "And it was all because you were like, the perfect guy. You still are, even. Don't you shake your head at me, Eric, it's true. There's no flaw in your personality, no blemish on your face, no extra fat on your body, no hidden secret ruling your life. There isn't a part of you that shouldn't be there, or that you wouldn't want to be there—in my opinion, anyway. Like I said, perfect guy. And I knew I couldn't be the perfect girl for you, because at that point I wasn't even the perfect girl for myself."

"I thought I could have helped you become the perfect girl for the both of us," he said, very softly but in a way that was bursting with convincing passion. "We could have done it. We would have made it come true. I would have driven up on weekends to sleep on your creaky dorm room mattress and walk across campus to eat crappy cafeteria food with you. You were already the perfect girl for me and I would have done anything to make you the perfect girl for you."

"You did, Eric, can't you see that?" I asked. "I needed you to give me space. You were too perfect and it made me feel pressured, like you'd be constantly hovering over me, waiting for me to heal. And you probably wouldn't have done anything like that if I did take you up on your offer, but it still would have felt like that for me. I needed to go into my cocoon by myself."

"And now that you're out, I can swoop in and be with you? Is that how it works?" he pressed.

My explanation didn't sound as good out loud as it did in my head, especially when he was pointing out its flaws. "Yeah, something like that I guess," I answered.

"I assume you live in the city?" he asked randomly. The way he said it was like his question didn't just come out of nowhere.

Confused as I was, I went with it. "Yeah. Right off of campus, in an apartment with my friend."

He nodded thoughtfully. "And you'd be a sophomore now?"

"Um, yes?" I replied. I knew what year I was, of course, but I didn't know why he was asking me about it.

"Any plans to transfer?"

"Nope."

"Going to study abroad soon?"

"No."

"How are Adele and Jason, by the way?"

"They're both fine, last time I talked to them."

"I take it they don't have any medical conditions that will make you drop out of school to care for either or both of them?"

"Correct."

Then Eric asked, looking me right in the eye, "So if I agree to this, there's no chance you can run away from me now? There's no reason for you not to give us a shot? Because I don't know if I could live with myself if you didn't want this—I don't know if I'd be able to put myself out there only to get shot down by you once again."

I couldn't say anything. He was taking all the words in the world and doing so many right things with them I wanted him to do it some more.

He did. "I've always wanted you all to myself, even more so now when I feel like there's a chance it might actually happen. And I don't just want you all to myself tonight—I want you all to myself for nights and days. Because really, Sookie Stackhouse, I don't want to share you anymore. I've done that in the past and it didn't work well for me."

"It didn't work for me at all," I honestly told him. "And I don't know if I could survive missing another opportunity with you ever."

"I'll take it, then," he announced resolutely. "I accept. I'll do it. I'll swoop. In fact, I'm swooping right now."

I was swooning right now.

With that, he stopped walking (which made me stop walking) and lifted my face up so he could bring his down for the perfect kiss. It was light, feather soft, but weighted with promise and meaning—now he could kiss me like this, like any way he wanted, because he could now. I could do the same to him too. And right now we were doing that, because we wanted to, and because we knew we could.

"We're just a block away," Eric said, ending the kiss but not moving his face away from mine. "We're so close. Let's get our privacy to hash out the details in there."

Our noses were eskimo-kissing and he was talking more to the skin between my nose and my mouth (what the heck was that called anyway, my mose?) than to me.

"Okay," I agreed.

He kissed me again before putting his arm around me again, and then we walked until Eric pointed out his building and guided us over there.

Eric's apartment was in an unassuming building. It was only five stories tall, like the other apartments in the area. He had a stoop. It was dark grey and had a fire escape. I liked it.

His two-bedroom apartment on the third floor was very Ikea: solid colors, classic architecture, and regular furniture. The only pattern in the whole apartment was on my dress. Compared to the mix-and-match furniture Tara and I each brought from home to create our new home, his apartment looked very put-together and grown up. Everything was cleaned up and put away—almost like he had been expecting to give a tour of his place.

When he first opened the door to his place, all I saw was sky. The wall directly across from the door was all windows, curtains pulled to the side to reveal a glittering view of the New Orleans skyline I had never seen before. It was like Eric didn't put out the fancy or distracting furniture or decorations because he knew this view was all the decoration his place needed.

He showed me around—the living room, with its worn leather couch and matching love seat and wide-screen TV; the kitchen, and by extension the mini makeshift bar he had set up on a cabinet that opened its doors to reveal a liquor array set up reminiscent of the one behind the counter in his bar; his study, which was supposed to be a bedroom and was now filled with Ikea shelves and a small black desk with a swivel chair behind it.

The bedroom was at the end of the Northman tour—best for last.

There were clothes on the floor and the drawers and nightstand were cluttered, and I still liked everything about his room. The walls were painted a deep navy blue and there were light blue carpets on the hardwood floor. The bedspread was forest green and I could see white sheets underneath.

He had some framed black and white concert photos of his favorite musicians—Bruce Springsteen, Tom Waits, Nick Cage, Keith Richards—on the wall; they were lined up to make a square for his "wall of inspiration," as Eric described it. I described it as awesome.

"So yeah, that's everything, pretty much," Eric said, leading me down the hall to the kitchen.

"This is so nice, Eric. I love what you did to it," I said.

It was like before he only had his bedroom to really make his own, but now he had the whole place to himself and he was definitely taking advantage of it, decoration-wise.

"Thanks," he said easily.

We made it back to the kitchen. I sat on a stool while he went over to the bar.

"Can I get you something to drink?" he asked, looking over his shoulder at me.

"Sure … whatever you're having, I guess," I said. I knew more about alcohol now to know what drinks there were to be had, but I didn't know what he had. I trusted him.

"In that case, would you mind trying some of my homemade sangria? I'm trying to make my own for the spring and summer seasons where light, fruity drinks are popular and I made my first batch this morning," he said.

Wow. Eric made his own sangria. Of course he would. "That sounds amazing."

He got out two clear pitchers, one full of red sangria and one full of white. I could see little chunks of fruit bobbing around in there. He got out four cups—two each, one for each sangria—and poured them as he told me what ingredients he used and what recipes he followed. He seemed impressed that I remembered what sangria was from his earlier bar lessons months ago.

…

**EPOV**

When Sookie was able to carry on a conversation about what components made up sangria, I was done for. It was clear. She could hold her own now. Obviously I could tell she had grown up and matured since the last time I saw her, but this was just another light-up advertisement announcing it.

Sookie seemed to have lost some of her _gee-whiz_ quality—some, but not all. Enough.

"So…" she said once we finished geeking out about the sangria.

"So…" I parroted back, unsure what she was getting at.

Sookie said, so slowly she was dragging out the words, "I think we should take it slow."

"The sangria?" I asked. _Was it that bad?_

She laughed. "No. Us. Our relationship. Eric and Sookie."

_Totally not the sangria._

I had taken the stool next to her and we were sitting shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, leaning into each other. I looked over when she said that.

"What were you thinking?" I asked.

I was interested to hear what we had to say. Because I already knew with our history and ages, we'd be unlike any couples we knew, either in real life or a movie or something.

I mean, we had already gone over the whole middle school "I like you, do you like me?" phase—only because we had fucking beaten it to death with the biggest stick in the world when we both worked at Looney Tunes. And we had already established that we were both single and wanted something more than making out on a couch from the other person.

"I know this is totally going against everything I've done tonight, with practically jumping you in your office and then going home with you and all, but now I kind of want to go and take things slow with us and just not jump into bed. I think we kind of need to rebuild after everything we've been through with each other," she said.

She got more self-conscious and self-doubting the more she talked, staring down at the counter for her last sentence, and I wanted her to know that there was no need for it—we were on the same page.

"I'm so glad you said that," I said. "I think it'll be better that way too."

Her eyes widened. "Really?"

I elbowed her arm. "Yes, really. Why do you seem so surprised?"

Her big blue eyes, as pretty as they were to look at, made me feel uncomfortable when they looked as taken aback as they did now. Her reaction stung.

She bit her lip and shrugged her shoulders. "Um, it's just … I can't believe you were thinking that. I thought guys were supposed to be, like, horny all the time."

"Guys, Sookie. College guys. Not me. Never me. I've offered you this before and I can, and will, offer it to you again," I said.

Didn't she remember? I always would. What guys had she been with to give her that point of view—someone _other_ than Bill? No. Unacceptable. No more of that. Not from me.

"No, you're right. I'm sorry I assumed," she said.

She reached out and placed her hand on top of mine, and I flipped mine over so our fingers were intertwined.

_Laced fingers mean love._

"I'm not like the others, whoever and however many there are. I've known you longer than they have and I've wanted you more than they have," I told her.

"I understand that now," she whispered. "I really do."

"I want more from you than a drunken, or even a sober, hookup. I want nights _and _days. I want breakfast and lunch and dinner and no secrets between us."

"Me too. I'm even ready to jump into this headfirst and just go with the feelings and freedom we now have," she professed.

Beautiful words had never been spoken.

"If we do this Sookie—if we take it to the next level—you need to promise me this first. I don't want to take away your college years from you. Bill stole your high school years and I don't want to follow in his footsteps. Can you understand that?" I asked.

"Of course," she said.

"Because you're going to have midterms and day classes while I'm working odd hours running my brand-new bar. You're going to get invites to keggers and study nights and other things that I won't be able to go to with you, and I don't want you to feel like you have to turn them down on my account—so you have to promise me you won't live your life and make all your decisions based off of your older man."

"I promise."

"Because there's the whole age thing too. I'm older than you—six years older than you. And that's not the problem—I can deal with that now," I honestly told her. "It's easier for me to accept being with a twenty-year-old than an eighteen-year-old."

"I'm fine with it too, Eric. I mean, it's not totally unprecedented outside of the Playboy mansion. Look at Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester. She was eighteen and he was definitely mid-thirties at least. They worked it out," she said encouragingly.

"I understand where you're coming from and I'm glad you feel that way, but Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester aren't real—and besides that they were like two hundred years ago in the abandoned British countryside where the nearest policeman or sheriff or constable or whoever was like a hundred miles away," I said, pulling out my _Jane Eyre_ knowledge. I liked the classics.

Sookie shrugged. "So we're like the 21st century version of that couple, whatever."

I kind of felt like this wasn't as big of a deal for her as it was for me. And I also kind of wanted her to acknowledge how awesome I was for reading _Jane Eyre_.

"Ignoring the fact that I'm not hiding a psycho wife, does that mean I'm going to be blind and crippled, or whatever the 21st century version of that is?" I teased.

She smiled and stroked my cheek with the hand that wasn't glued to mine. "Your tattoo would probably have been considered a deformity back then, so that would be how you're crippled. And with eyes as light as yours, you're probably very susceptible to sun damage, so there's that."

Her eyes were just as light as mine, but pointing that out would ruin the moment. I settled with, "As long as you'll be there to take care of me that's fine."

"Oh, believe me, I will. But only because your familiarity with _Jane Eyre_ is so attractive to me."

_Booyah!_

I grinned at her and she returned the favor. Or, she did, until her smile fell and she said, "You know, if we're technically supposed to be starting from square one, we probably shouldn't be making these grand declarations."

I blew air out of my mouth, sighing in resigned disappointment. "Yeah, you're probably right."

_She was always right._

"But … I don't want to take them back," she said slowly.

Hope, the thing with wings, soared through my body. "Me neither."

We smiled at each other. Until she yawned, that is.

"I can call you a cab but I kind of don't want to do that," I said wistfully after a few moments of comfortable silence.

"Yeah, I know, but if I slept over here then that wouldn't be very conducive to starting over. We'd be breaking the rules the first night we met," she said, annoyingly right.

A lot of women slept over here the first night we met, but of course I wasn't going to tell Sookie that.

Besides, I didn't want what I had with them to become what I had with Sookie. Not at all.

"I know. How about we won't do anything, though?" I said hopefully. "Just you, literally sleeping with me, in my bed, in my apartment. Nothing more than some making out and snuggling."

"So you snuggle on the first date?" she teased, a corner of her mouth going up.

Okay, so it wasn't a yes, but it definitely wasn't a no.

"Oh, believe me, this isn't a date. If you think this is my idea of a date then you're going to be in for a big surprise when I take you out tomorrow night," I replied.

"Mmmhmm," she said teasingly. "Hopefully you can talk the talk too."

I winked. "You bet I can."

"Guess I'll just have to sleep over and wait and see," she said, giggling.

"Guess so."

We cleared the drinks after that—she washed and I dried as I reflected on how domestic this already felt. Which was, very domestic.

After that, I sat her down on the couch and let her pick out something to watch on TV. I didn't know what she liked, and I was pretty kumbaya when it came to sharing the remote. When she found _Forrest Gump_ I was totally fine with it, even though we came in right after Forrest told Kennedy he had to pee.

We were snuggled up pretty good. Her head was resting on my shoulder and my arm was wrapped around her own shoulder, playing with the ends of her hair absentmindedly. Every so often she'd move her head and kiss my tattoo randomly through my shirt; it was the sweetest thing she ever could have done. She was the sweetest thing.

But somehow between Forrest seeing Jenny the hippy and Forrest seeing Jenny the waitress, we ended up making out on my couch. It was casual and loose and easy and playful, with no jumpiness or nervousness despite the fact that we were only into our single-digit kissing. I resolved to keep making out with Sookie to get that number up so that we had more than ten separate kisses, and we did that, all right.

We alternated between making out and snuggling until I went to kiss Sookie on the cheek and realized she had fallen asleep. And that was when I had another interaction with a side of Sookie I had never known before tonight—that the girl slept like a rock. Seriously. I tried whispering, then murmuring, then calling her name—nothing. Poking and tapping didn't do anything either, and when I picked her up in my arms and carried her into my room she barely made a noise.

This night didn't turn out at all how I expected. And I'm not just talking about when I left for the bar earlier this evening—I also mean after I saw Sookie. I'm a guy so obviously I would have been okay if we slept together tonight, but if it had just been some wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am thing I would have had to pass on it. Hey, Sookie ended up in my bed anyway, and the talk we had and the first date I got out of her were satisfying enough for me. They were all I needed.

I couldn't help but be reminded of the last time I helped Sookie into my bed—although now I would be sleeping in it with her instead of face-down on the couch. I debated whether or not to wake her up so she could change into some comfier clothes of mine, but I figured if she fell asleep in it she'd be fine.

That didn't stop me from stripping down to my boxers and getting in under the covers.

She didn't stir, not even when I slowly lined up behind her to spoon and threw my arm around her or when I tucked my nose in her hair and inhaled. And that was how I fell asleep—next to Sookie, in my bed.

_Finally_.

...

**A/N: Want more of that afalcone10 writing you know and love? I posted a new stoy up about a one-night stand between hotel manager Eric and his checked-in guest Sookie. And because I apparently have a sick fascination with having multiple stories going that I know I can't keep up with, I've been debating fleshing it out into an actual story rather than a one-shot. So ... go read it and give me your opinion on wha I should do! Because I know I'm a total fail with replying to reviews even though I read every one (like to write this chapter I went back and read every review for chapter 15) and I do like knowing what you guys think, because you always make me think after I read your comments. **


	17. Second Breakfast

**A/N: Just had to go through midterms and wrote this as a stress-reliever! So thanks for bearing with me. I've been really pleased with the reviews and I've been listening to all your comments. I'm so glad I haven't gotten a lot of troll comments telling me to stop having Sookie and Eric take it so slow and that they should have fucked like two chapters ago, because I was scared that would happen and I really like that it's a FF but usually it doesn't happen. So thank you for understanding how I want this to go.**

**Also big thanks to my patient perfect beta chiisai-kitty. Hope this makes feel you better :)**

**...**

**SPOV**

When I first got into this bed, it was when I was asleep and Eric was not. Now he was the one with the closed eyes and the steady breathing and the absolute stillness, and I was awake and listening to the sound of his inhales and exhales as a way to soothe myself back to sleep.

That wasn't the case. His breathing served as a constant reminder that I was in Eric's bed, that he was in it with me and even though he was sleeping he was still having a big effect on me. Every inhale was a shot of espresso and every exhale was a can of Coke and now I was so wired there was no way I was going to be able to sleep next to him now.

I wondered about how Eric got to study my unguarded self when I fell asleep tonight and the last time I was in his bed; it was unfair that when it was my turn to be awake the lights were out and he was positioned behind me and I was too chickenshit to turn to face him.

I was aware that I was still wearing my dress from last night. I was glad it wasn't one of the skanky, skintight ones I sometimes borrowed from Tara that would have been uncomfortable to sleep in. And surely it would have embarrassed me tomorrow when I left here to go back home—whenever that would end up happening.

Great. What was going to happen tomorrow? Now I definitely wasn't falling asleep anytime soon, that much was clear to me.

Suddenly, I realized that Eric's arm was slung across my waist, almost possessively. How had I missed _that_? His hand was flat on my lower stomach and I wondered if it had been there when he was awake. I wondered about a lot of things he must have done when he was awake and I was not—like what he was thinking or feeling seeing me sleeping in his bed. I wish I knew.

I knew he was only wearing boxers because his bare legs were tangled up in mine, and I was pretty sure he wasn't wearing a shirt. My dress was comfy, but I ached to change out of it. What would Eric think when he woke up and the dress I'd been wearing when he had tucked me in had magically disappeared? But besides that, if I took my dress off I would inevitably wake him up with the movement and noise, and I didn't want to interrupt his slumber.

This wasn't what I expected would happen tonight. Granted, I didn't know what would, but if someone had told me instead of hooking up, Eric and I had instead talked over our feelings and relationship expectations and then I ended up falling asleep on him … I think I would have been perfectly okay with that.

The only thing I wasn't okay with was that I was keeping myself awake with questions right now when all I really wanted was to fall asleep.

Yawning, I stretched my legs out, making his foot unknowingly slide up my calf with my action. Once I settled into a new position, I felt his hands move to settle on the curve of my hip and I foolishly closed my eyes as if I'd been caught doing something I wasn't supposed to do.

Oh my God. Was Eric awake?

I was ready to just chalk it up to Eric instinctively doing it in his sleep when his hand twitched again, his fingers pressing a little into the fabric of my dress, as if to make their presence known. He had to be awake, he just had to be. Didn't he?

I lay perfectly still, pretending to be asleep; he couldn't see that my eyes were closed but I felt better that they were. Alcide was a finicky sleeper, easily awakened at the slightest cough, and I had forgotten what it was like to share a bed with someone and the various changes you had to make to your sleeping habits to accommodate him.

It was hard pretending to be asleep now and regulating my breath in to a slow inhale, slow exhale over and over again like I wasn't being caressed, if only sleep-caressed. Now his three biggest fingers were continuously rubbing small circles into me, not nearly as pressed down as they were a moment ago but enough to generate heat on my already burning body.

I pressed my face into the pillow in a futile effort to suppress the gleeful grin I knew no one could see anyway. It was stupid because he was probably sleeping and even if he wasn't, I was supposed to be sleeping, but just knowing that his arms were around me and his hands were on me—whether purposefully or not—was almost too much.

But then his hand stopped and his fingers stilled and I squeezed my eyes tightly for a moment before opening them. I didn't know what I was expecting when I opened them, but I laid there waiting, fake sleep-breaths stopped, to see what would happen next.

Nothing did, for a couple moments. But then the covers moved and I felt his chest pressed against my back now, much more than before. Now he was just plain old pressed up against me now much more than before.

He exhaled loudly and I could feel his warm breath on the back of my neck. Then his mouth was on the side of my neck and he was leaving a lingering open-mouthed kiss on the slope of my bare shoulder before pressing his cheek against the skin. I could feel his eyelashes fluttering and it all felt so intimate.

And then his thumb brushed back and forth lightly on my dress and I felt just as tense and anxious as I had been when I wasn't sure if he was sleeping or not, only now I knew.

"You up?" Eric whispered after a moment. I wouldn't have woken up to it if I had been sleeping, but of course I was _wide awake_ now so I heard him.

"Yeah," I murmured back, after a moment of deliberation. I can feel him exhale into my hair.

"Me too," he sighed.

He started to slide his thumb back in forth in the same pattern as before—he had stopped during the seven seconds we sleepily talked to each other—and I focused on that before my eyes were closing on their own accord and I was out.

When I woke up the next morning, his hand was lying exactly where I thought it had been last night. I knew then that Eric was sleeping because he was snoring softly, but not in a way that I'd need ear plugs just to get some shut-eye. But apparently he had a super strong grip even when he was deep in sleep, because it took some controlled wiggling on my part before I could get out of the bed.

Now was my shot—I was up and he was not and I took advantage of it to look at his sleeping form.

The covers were halfway down, revealing a torso that looked more filled out, a little more muscular, than the last (and only) time I saw Eric with his shirt off. Maybe that was the angle, but I had thought Eric looked a little bigger last night. His arms certainly did, or the one arm that was over the covers—the arm that as still splayed out, searching for the body it had just been holding.

His hair looked a little mussed up from the gel he used last night, but it looked sexy. He looked sexy. The context of seeing him in bed was sexy even though we didn't have sex last night.

The morning light faintly streaming in under the blinds made the lighting of the room—and Eric—look good.

I found his bathroom—and the pink plastic toothbrush he left on the counter for me. He must have put it there last night. After I did my business, I hesitantly took the toothbrush out of its wrapping and squeezed Eric's vanilla mint toothpaste on it, thinking hard as I brushed my teeth. Now that I was up, what was I supposed to do?

Eric was still sleeping when I walked back into the bedroom, so I padded back to the living room, where my purse was. Good lord, was it really only nine in the morning?

Sure enough, I had three texts from Sam asking me if I got to Eric's okay, then saying that the band was really good and I should have stayed, and then asking if I wanted to share a cab back. Since the last text was from midnight, I guess he assumed that I didn't want to share a cab back.

I also had two texts from Tara. The first was from an hour ago saying that she realized I never came home and wanted to know if I slept over at Sam's. The next was from twenty minutes ago saying just this: "Talked to Sam. GET IT GRRL!"

Even though I knew I should, I didn't text either of them back. I didn't feel like it. I liked the little Sookie-and-Eric bubble we'd placed ourselves in. And it would take way too much time and effort to text Tara everything that happened last night when I didn't GET IT GRRL! but ended up feeling just as satasfied as if I had.

Ah! I knew what I could do while waiting for Eric to get up—which would probably be soon, considering that the last time I slept over he went to bed after me and woke up before me even after a night of partying.

I could make him breakfast.

He made me breakfast last time. Now it was my turn. Oh! He probably had champagne somewhere and I could make him mimosas too. My first time making him a drink. Yes.

There wasn't any champagne in the fridge, but there was vodka in the freezer. Bloody Marys suddenly became more of an option now that I saw celery in his vegetable drawer and tomato juice on the side door of the fridge. I'd hold out for mimosas could make do with Bloody Marys; I'd work on the drinks last.

Besides, Eric was such a meticulous foodie and drinkie (if that was a thing? A good thing in a non-alcoholic way?) that I was sure he'd have breakfast fixings, and he sure did. Goodness knows he had enough to make eggs and bacon and—get this—leftover fruit salad to keep me entertained for a while.

Eric's kitchen was easily organized. It only took me a couple tries to find where he kept his skillets and then his bowls and whisks. I hadn't made breakfast in a while, since I usually just grabbed a bagel or a granola bar before heading to class, but my eggs and bacon were looking pretty good. I was toasting bread and had taken out a bag of tater tots I found in the freezer (they were as good as home fries, right?) and those were baking in the oven. The premade fruit salad was on the already set table, as were cups and mugs for milk, juice, and the coffee I was brewing.

_Just call me Sookie Stewart. _

While I was in the middle of transferring the bacon from the skillet to a paper towel-covered plate I heard the toilet flush—oh God, Eric was awake. Of course it was when I was up to my elbows in bacon grease and partially-cooked eggs.

He emerged from the hallway a couple minutes later. His hair was still sticking up with yesterday's gel and he was still shirtless, and I was reminded of the last time I was in a kitchen with a shirtless Eric. He'd definitely put on some muscle since then; he'd really filled out. He looked even better than I thought possible, especially in his blue pinstripe pajama bottoms he'd thrown on. Somehow he looked more scandalous covered up, since the pants settled so far down on his hips I didn't know how they weren't falling off as he made his way towards me, a growing smile on his face as he got closer.

"What's all this?" he said, stopping next to me and giving me a sideways hug as he lazily kissed my cheek. I could tell he had brushed his teeth with that same yummy vanilla mint toothpaste I had liked this morning.

I turned my head to the side, silently asking for a kiss on the lips, and he obliged. Mmm. Vanilla mint kisses from Eric—I liked.

Just then the toast popped up and we both jumped at the noise, breaking apart to laugh nervously at ourselves. Without being asked, Eric walked over to the toaster—giving me a sneak peek at his back dimples exposed by the low cut PJs—and took them out and added them to the toast plate. Then he brought the plate, and the bacon plate, over to the table and set them down.

Once he was finished, he came back to my side, watching me transfer the eggs to their plate. "This looks great, Sookie," he said, eating a piece of bacon he'd stolen. "Have you been up for a while?"

"Um, I got up around nine or so," I replied. His proximity was making it hard to concentrate on not spilling the eggs. Once I was finished and had put the skillet back on the stove, I turned to him and smiled. "I wanted to make you breakfast."

He grinned. "And you did."

"Yeah. One thing though—do you have any champagne? I wanted to make you mimosas but I couldn't find it."

"You're making me breakfast _and _drinks? My my, Sookie Stackhouse," he said with an easy smile. He walked over to the pantry—d'oh! Why didn't I think to look there—and grabbed a bottle of champagne. "Here you go," he said, setting it on the table. He turned to take out two flutes from the cupboard, but I couldn't tell you what shelf because I was too busy admiring the way his tattoo rippled with the movement. Guitar players always had the nicest arms.

I really liked that we were on the same page, of how it was my turn to provide for him. He had gotten the champagne and their glasses but he was still making me measure out the liquids.

"How do you like your coffee again?" he asked, bringing the pot over.

"I take it black," I told him.

He looked up quickly. "Really? Is that a new thing?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. Makes it cheaper since I don't have to buy creamer or sugar."

"Well, I mean, I have both of those. You don't have to skimp here," he said practically as he poured some coffee creamer into his own mug.

I came over with the eggs and the butter and jam for the toast, placing it on the table. Once I took the tater tots out of the oven and onto a plate, breakfast was ready.

Eric had already poured me a cup of coffee, and it was under his watchful eye that I added cream and sugar to mine. He didn't say anything but he had a little half-smile on his face when he scooped the eggs on his plate.

As soon as he took a bite out of his makeshift breakfast sandwich—he had put his eggs and tots and bacon between two pieces of toast whereas I just kept my breakfast fixings on my plate—he closed his eyes and groaned. "Good God, Sookie."

Pleased, I took a forkful of eggs. Gran had the best recipe for making scrambled eggs—adding milk and oil and cheese to them while whisking. I was glad I still remembered how to make them.

"Thanks," I said.

"No. _Thank you_."

After that, we didn't talk much. Eating two other breakfast sandwiches and then the eggs and tots I couldn't finish made Eric a crappy conversationalist, but I didn't care. I liked that he liked my cooking so much—which he told me after he had eaten all of it—and my drink as well, since he deemed it very good. I had never made mimosas before and I was proud I could do it all on my own.

"This is nice," he said, gesturing back and forth between us with his fork once he was done.

"Yeah, it is," I replied, grinning.

Eric insisted on cleaning up, since I had made breakfast, and I let him. I sat on the couch and mindlessly watched the news as he talked to me about the local farmer's market he'd gotten the eggs and fruit from and the deli down the street where the bacon was bought at it. Since I still had a meal plan I didn't get to do much actual food shopping (besides chips and snacks and stuff) and I liked listening to Eric talk about supporting local businesses and never going to grocery stores ever again.

"So do you mean to stay here?" I asked. It was only fair, since he had done the same to me last night.

At this point he was loading things into the dishwasher, and though there was still some clanking of silverware it was easier to talk than over the noise of the water running from the sink faucet.

"Yeah, I really do. I invested everything in the bar and I love it so much. And I really like this neighborhood too—I don't think I'm gonna move out of it any time soon," he answered. He was bending over to put plates in and I shamelessly checked out his ass. I could do it now without the fear of getting caught.

"That's good," I said. _That you're not going anywhere either_, I mentally added.

He closed the dishwasher drawer and walked over to the couch. "Everything's going great in my life now. New Orleans is everything I wanted it to be," he said, sitting next to me. Wiggled his eyebrows, he added, "Especially now."

"New Orleans's been great for me too," I said. I liked that back then we had such high expectations for New Orleans, to the point where it wasn't just a city but a way of life that we both craved. Now we both had it. I loved it.

"So I've been thinking that pretty soon I should drive you back to your apartment so you can take care of homework and everything else you need during the day so I can have tonight with you? Take you out on that first date like I promised? Does that sound all right?"

Today was going to be a laundry day even before I knew Eric was going to see me tonight. Plus, I had discussion posts for an online class and readings I had to do for my classes on Monday. So I did have stuff to do, and I guessed Eric did too. That was okay. We had lives outside of this relationship and we needed to tend to them so we could go back to our own little world.

"Sure, yeah. Do I get to find out what the date's going to be?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Of course not," he said, grinning.

I stuck my tongue out at him and he mirrored my action.

"C'mon, Eric, if you're as concerned with me doing my homework as you claim to be, then you'd just tell me so I wouldn't get distracted and start thinking of things when I'm supposed to be reading!" I tried.

"You're the smarty farty with the big multi-tasking brain. You'll be fine," he scoffed, brushing my sneak tactic away.

Damn him. "Errrrrrrric!"

"Sooooookie!" he teased.

We looked at each other for a long moment before I cracked. "All right," I huffed.

"It'll be worth the wait, I promise," he said soothingly.

"Yeah, yeah." But I was smiling. He was too.

After a moment, he said, like he just thought of it, "Hey, so how do you like New Orleans Looney Tunes? I mean, I know it's nowhere near as awesome as the Shreveport one and everything."

"Um, Eric, you know I don't work there anymore, right?" I asked.

His widened eyes showed me he didn't. "When'd you quit?"

I shrugged. "Little more than a year ago. It just wasn't as fun as I needed it to be. Now I'm a waitress at this bar on campus called the All-Nighter."

"Never heard of it," he replied, frowning a little.

"Really?" I giggled. "I thought you knew every bar ever, Mr. Drinks."

He rolled his eyes. "This is easily fixable. I'll just have to visit sometime."

"Oh, you don't have to do that. It's nothing special. Really, I would know—it's just a chicken fingers and beer kind of establishment," I said, suddenly embarrassed.

Eric's bar was so cool and he was so cool, so obviously there was a reason why he had never even heard of the All-Nighter, let alone go to it.

"Well, you work there, so it's special to me," he said. "Why wouldn't you want me to visit you as a kind of pick-me-up during your break?"

"It's not that I don't want you there, it's just … I don't really like it, and I would never want to go there if I didn't work there," I explained. _And Sam works there._

"So why do you? Work there, I mean."

"'Cause I'm a broke college student and the economy sucks and a job's a job!"

"So what? You quit Looney Tunes because you weren't having fun. Why won't you do the same for this?"

"Because last time I had a fallback job and I've been too busy and unsuccessful to find another," I explained.

I was taking more credits this semester and having the job was stressful enough. Finding one would be even more work and would require more time than I had—especially now with Eric here.

"Now you don't have to find another—another found you," Eric told me. "Come work for me."

"You don't even know if I'm a good waitress!" I protested.

"True, but I know you're a good person, and a smart one too. You have the best people skills I've ever seen, and I'm sure that even if you were the worst waitress ever and got orders wrong and spilled drinks, with your smile and charm you'd still be making the best tips in the place. Plus, I'd hire you as a bartender, because I know you're good at that, and you'd get even more dough. Next?"

I shook my head in disbelief, and he cupped my cheek to stop me. "Why won't you work with me, Sookie? You've done it before."

"That was different! I don't want to get any special treatment," I protested.

"Please. You got special treatment back at Looney Tunes too but you were just too blind to see it," he scoffed.

As I thought back on the shared schedules we had and how we always seemed to work the cash registers together, I realized I really was just too damn blind to see a lot of things. "Yeah, but—"

"But what? It's not like you're sleeping with the boss … yet," he slyly added.

"_Yet_," I allowed myself to say with a raised eyebrow. "But c'mon, Eric, be real. How am I supposed to get there? I took a cab last night and I can't be doing that every time I have to work."

"I have a car to pick you up with. And I have a bike that I thought I'd use to get around the city until I realized I sweat like crazy when I bike. You're welcome to use it. If not, you forget we live in a big city. There's public transportation. And besides, I live like three blocks away from the place. You could crash here anytime."

I opened my mouth and closed it. I didn't know what to say anymore. Truth was, I'd been getting sick of working at the All-Nighter, and working there with Sam would probably be really strained after last night.

"Look, I'll think about it. I promise you I will. But honestly, Eric, we just started up again. It hasn't even been twelve hours since we first met and you're already trying to get me to work with you," I told him earnestly. "Before I agree to working for you, I want to see how we're going to be, you know? If we were going to start slow in our personal relationship, then we should start slow in our business one too. It's only fair."

He looked at me for a second before sighing and holding up his hands. "All right, all right. Just think about it, especially on the crappy days with the long shifts. We'd be able to hang out a lot more despite the fact that we have two different lives. And we already know we make a great team. Just, I don't know, keep my offer on the mental backburner, because it's never going away. Ever. Okay?"

Eric was tense and alert, clearly expecting a rebuttal. But it was one that would never come.

He was making a lot of sense. I was seriously considering his proposal. It was always nice to have a backup.

"Okay," I promised. Then I smiled at him.

He smiled in reply—hesitantly at first, but then more sure of his smile and who he was smiling at and why. "Okay. Let's get you home, then."

I nodded in response, and he kissed me for it. "Thanks for not running away," he murmured.

I couldn't tell what he was talking about. Did he mean not running away just then? Or not running away this morning when I was awake and he was not? Did he mean it literally or metaphorically?

No matter what it was in reference to, his statement was true. I did end up running away from Eric—running away from his love by rejecting him, running away from him by moving to a new city. And I had the tendency to run away too, like I ran away from Bill and my so-called friends and my social life.

I was done running, and felt so tired of it. I kissed him back.

…

**EPOV**

When Sookie collected her things, I went back in my room and threw on some clothes.

I wore what I always wore—the same old uniform of cool boots and skinny jeans and band shirts and slutty v-necks. And, of course, The Beanie.

Except now that I'd gotten a little bigger, some of the older shirts and jeans were a lot tighter, even uncomfortably so (but of course the people who saw me in them wouldn't know that). I'd had to buy my business clothes—suits and blazers and collared shirts and nice dress pants—in the next size up.

I'd been wearing the penguin suit to the club because I'd had that interview with the reporter. I always dressed up when I was being interviewed (even though it still blew my mind that people thought I was worth interviewing and being paid to write about) or when a band was playing, just to make the good impressions I needed to make. Normally I just wore whatever the hell I wanted, which was the same old wardrobe I'd been building up since college. When I was bartender it didn't matter, but when I was Bar Manager and Co-Owner it did, so I had the suits.

Maybe I'd wear a suit for the date tonight with Sookie that I actually hadn't planned out. I'd gotten so caught up in the excitement that I asked her out on a date when I absolutely wasn't prepared for it.

But it was Sookie. She wouldn't care. I didn't need to go all out with the fancy dinner reservations and flowers and champagne. The date could be whatever, it just had to be good.

I had all day to think about that—when Sookie wasn't in my living room waiting for me to hurry up and get changed. I grabbed a random pair of jeans and a v-neck and put them on, and then slipped my feet into some flip flops. I was just driving Sookie home—wherever that was.

Soon I'd find out.

I still had my old car from the record store days, and Sookie remembered it fondly as she buckled her seatbelt. I had already known that Tulane wasn't exactly close but it wasn't far away either, and it took me about twenty-five minutes with traffic to get to its campus.

Apparently Sookie lived off campus, but her neighborhood was terrible. There was trash everywhere: red plastic cups in the dead rose bushes, beer cans on the sidewalk, even a condom dangling off of someone's mailbox. Absolutely disgusting. The houses looked old and not properly cared for—and exactly like the same crappy apartments I rented with like seven other guys in college when we first moved off-campus.

It made me feel old, looking at the apartment Sookie was probably so proud to live in on her own, her very first place to live that she didn't have to live in by the rules instated by her family or her college. The first apartment I'd rented was a total dump too, but I didn't see it for what it was back then. And that's why I kept my mouth shut and found a spot in front of the house she had pointed to, the one with the peeling cream paint and the cracked steps and overgrown grass.

"That's mine," she said, nodding towards the building. She said it like she was a proud mom on the sidelines of the soccer field, pointing out that her kid was the one that just scored the game-winning goal. "Wanna come in? Just for a couple minutes?"

"Yeah, sure," I said.

To her credit, Sookie's apartment was beautiful on the inside. It had all this eclectic furniture but it worked so well that it didn't matter that the couches were two different fabrics. Everything was clean and organized—there was even a bookshelf in the living room, for Christ's sake!

I couldn't remember a time in college where there wasn't a day-old box of pizza on the coffee table and beer bottles on every flat surface (even on top of the TV), so while Sookie's apartment looked like the typical college apartment on the outside, it looked so much better and more homey in the inside. Of course it would. It was Sookie's.

She gave me a tour of her apartment, just like I had given her once before. Her roommate—Tara, she said—was in the shower, but Sookie showed me her small, but spotless, kitchen and her room.

The first thing that I noticed was that her bed was tiny.

But as I looked around at her textbooks on the floor and the posters on her wall (she'd found some vintage-looking signs for Woodstock and the Human Be-In and the Montgomery Pop Festival and put them up), I realized how much I liked her room. And when I looked at her desk, which was piled with papers and books and her laptop, I caught a glimpse of her Looney Tunes nametag pinned to her bulletin board and my heart melted. How many times did she look at that and think of me?

"Hey, I just remembered, I don't have your number," I told her, turning around to look at her. She had been hovering by the door as I walked around, but she took a step forward when I spoke to her.

"Yeah, it's changed. I got a new phone," she replied before reciting her number.

"I got a new one too. Here, I'll text you my name."

"Thanks, got it," she said, eyes down on the screen as she added me to her contacts list.

"Good. At least this time you didn't have to go to the hospital for me to justify giving you my number," I teased.

"Haha, yeah."

"Listen, I'm gonna take off now. How about I pick you up at eight? That okay?"

"And you're still not going to tell me what we're doing?"

"Nope."

"Will you at least give me a clue on what to wear?" she whined.

"Wear something comfy, I guess? Nothing fancy," I said.

I still had no clue what we were doing but I wanted it to be something where I could just talk to Sookie without worrying about formalities. After all, this morning she'd served me the best, nicest breakfast anyone had ever made—all the while wearing last night's makeup and no shoes. I could probably take Sookie to a 7-11 and buy her a tacquito and a Slurpee and we'd still end up having a great time. I would never do that, of course. But it was nice to know that the variables didn't matter when we were the constants.

"Ugh. Okay," she said, "I'll walk you out."

As I followed her down the hall, I saw the bathroom door open and was hit with a wave of hot air and girl smells before it was closed shut. It was probably her roommate.

"Yeah, that was Tara," Sookie said when I asked about it. "She's my roommate.

Tara the roommate. "Oh, okay. Cool."

Sookie gave me the history behind their friendship as we walked to my car. When we got to right in front of the passenger door she stopped walking, so I did too.

"Thanks for … everything, really. The ride, the sleepover, the date," she said, turning around to face me.

"You're thanking me for a date I haven't even gone on yet with you?" I asked incredulously. Sookie could be such a Southern belle sometimes. It was cute.

She blushed. "Yeah, I guess. Whatever. I'm glad I found you."

"I'm glad you found me," I said. After a moment, I added, "We're not going to lose each other again, are we?"

"Not when we have each other's numbers again. And especially not you're taking me to a date at an unspecified location in a couple hours!" Sookie replied easily, breaking the seriousness.

"Hey, you already thanked me for it anyway!" I teasingly reminded her.

"Yeah, yeah." She rolled her eyes. But she still sent me off with a kiss and a friendly reminder that she should probably know what date I was taking her on and that I should feel free to tell her any time of the day now that I had her number.

Now that I had her number. Now that I was taking her on a date.

Now that I was, in some perfect undefinable and indescribable way, with Sookie.


	18. Second Party

**A/N: I know I warned you the time in between updates would be longish, but I never thought it'd be this long and I'm sorry for that. School has been hard, especially the finals and extracurricular activities, but I've been on winter break since last week so I have a little more free time now! Not much, mind you, since … I am back working at the record store that started this little gem. It's just as a seasonal worker to earn a couple extra bucks, but being back kind of jumpstarted my writing mojo (even though, unfortunately, I don't have an Eric of my own there) and that's what helped me write this guy. Hopefully the muse will stay!**

**Thanks to my beta chiisai kitty who keeps track of the most insane little details in this story and is therefore the best beta ever. So many hugs. **

…

**SPOV**

Tara didn't even wait until I closed the door to start interrogating me: "Was that him—The Eric? Please say yes."

"Jesus Christ, Tara!" I exclaimed, jumping at the sound of her voice.

She had snuck up on me, in a towel, when I was still replaying the events of what just happened with Eric in my head. And she was grinning like a maniac.

Once my heart rate went down, I replied, "And yes, that was him."

She pumped her fist, Tiger Woods style. "Yessss! Fuck, I only saw him for like a second but he was so hot! Good for you. Sam said you've known him for a while, and used to work with him at the record store or something? Why haven't you told me about him?"

_Yeah. About that…_

"Honestly, I never thought there'd be anything to tell. I had the biggest crush on him for the longest time, and he felt the same way about me too, but we didn't find out until it was too late. It just wasn't the right time then," I said, walking past her to my room.

Tara wasn't letting me get away with that. I was stupid to think she'd let me go that easily. She followed me and leaned against my doorframe and watched me sit on the bed and open my laptop. "So is now the right time?"

"Yeah, actually," I softly replied, "I think it might be."

"Awh, Sookie!" she exclaimed, clapping excitedly. "That's great! You have to tell me everything. But start at the beginning."

I looked over at her. "Okay. But you should put some clothes on, first. It's gonna take a while."

…

Tara had been a great sounding board, but the bad thing about talking to her was that she made me and Eric seem like we had this storybook romance and we were just getting our second wind. I didn't think of us as having some kind of grand, sweeping romance like Scarlett and Rhett, but apparently she did.

And apparently I was an idiot for not taking Eric up on his offer in the Looney Tunes parking lot, but I had figured that out long before Tara did.

Tara had promised to help me get ready for my big date—and unlike me, she wasn't daunted by the vagueness of it.

I was glad I was able to wait all day after seeing Eric off before texting him at seven.

But as I pressed the buttons on the keyboard, it dawned on me that this was the first time I was initiating text conversation. That was a big deal for me. Before it was always Eric reaching out and inviting me to things and texting me. Today I would initiate, just like I'd done yesterday. New Sookie.

"Starting to get ready for the date. Wanna tell me what I'm getting dressed for? ;)" I sent.

That would be good, right? I could flirt with him now and not have to worry about any possible misinterpretations. I could send him winkyfaces now. He could send them back. We could text like this now.

I held the phone in my hand, looking at it as I watched the screen tell me my text was sent, and then waiting for the telltale vibrating response that Eric had replied. When that didn't happen in thirty seconds, I put the phone on the nightstand and walked over to my closet.

Of course, as soon as I opened the doors my phone rang, and I dashed over to see what Eric's response was.

"Sure. You're getting dressed for me ;)" he replied back.

_God. That man. _

"Haha. I'm not gonna get anything more from you, am I?" I sent.

His response time was shorter now; the phone buzzed when I was still holding it.

"Nope. Sorry. Aren't you supposed to be doing homework, anyway?"

It was so refreshing reading a coherent text devoid of the misused "r" and "u" and "2"s that I was so used to seeing. I couldn't remember the last time I read a text this grammatically correct.

"Aren't you supposed to be planning this awesome date?" I countered.

"Touché," was all he sent back. God, he was so infuriatingly, charmingly, adorably vague.

Well, I just wouldn't respond. Partly because I wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine, and partly because I just plain old didn't have a witty response to that.

Two minutes later my phone vibrated—_Eric was double-texting me!_

"Fine. It's a casual dinner. I'm wearing jeans and a button down. And that's ALL you're getting from me."

Aha! I won. "I can work with that :) Thanks," I texted. And then I called for Tara to come in.

…

Eric was on time, knocking right at eight. I, however, was the one running late, so I asked Tara to get the door. I didn't like it, since it reminded me of those awesomely bad teen movies where the girl purposely comes in late and has her big walk-down-the-stairs moment so her prom date can make his prom date face at her, but goddamnit, I needed to make sure I had mints and my phone and my wallet in my purse! I didn't mean to be _that girl_.

I wasn't wearing a silk dress and didn't have a fancy up-do, but Eric was still giving me prom date face, even if he didn't know it. But that was okay, since I was serving it right back to him. And I knew it.

_He didn't tell me that the jeans and button down he'd be wearing would be so damn tight!_

To be fair, I hadn't told him that I'd be wearing a short lace dress that was completely see-through, except for the white satin slip I was wearing underneath it. The hemline was a little short, but I figured the long sleeves balanced it out and I wouldn't have to wear a sweater with it. I'd paired the dress—a '60s vintage find Tara had saved for me at work—with my favorite beat-up brown boots that I'd idly noticed I'd been wearing the first time I walked into Looney Tunes and consequently into Eric's life.

It was a fashion choice I'd made because of the meaning and symbolism behind the boots—and because they went really, really well with the dress in a Taylor Swift-y kind of way when coupled with the long curls I was rocking.

"Sookie, hi, you look great," he said, smiling down at me as he kissed me on the cheek as a hello.

"You clean up nice yourself," I said, not moving the arm around his waist that I'd put there for our embrace.

He smiled and lifted my chin up with his finger so he could kiss me softly on the lips. When he pulled away, I rubbed my nose against his. Eskimo kiss.

"Okay, that's enough cute for me. But you two crazy kids have fun!" Tara said a moment later, excusing herself.

I don't think the irony of her calling Eric a kid, and a crazy one at that, was lost on either of us.

"Your roommate's … something," Eric said, watching her walk out of the room and then turning to me.

"What? What'd she say to you?" I asked sharply.

He shrugged. "Nothing I haven't already told myself. It's good you have such a protective friend."

Hmmph. I knew_ someone_ who'd be getting a talking to later.

Since I figured that was all Eric wanted to say about that, I stored it in the back of my mind and switched gears. "Ready to go?" I asked.

He opened the door, gesturing for me to go first. "Sure am, sunshine" he said, a smile playing up his mouth.

_Sunshine_. That was new.

Eric must have been thinking what I was thinking, as he asked, "Do you still have the list?"

I didn't have to ask. I knew what list he meant. "It's in my desk."

"Here?" he clarified.

"Yep."

"So you brought it with you to college?"

"Along with my name tag and my memories, yes," I answered.

He opened the door for me, because we were by his car at this point.

"I brought my memories too," he said, letting me stew on that as he walked around the front of the car.

Eric had a great profile. His ass had a great profile too, especially in those jeans. But I didn't let those distractions stop me from repeating what he said in my head.

"So how was the rest of your day?" he said conversationally as he pulled out of his spot.

"Eh, you know. Saturday. Did my homework and laundry and wondered about what I'd be doing tonight. What did you get up to since I saw you last?"

"Uh, nothing much," he said, "just went into work and got caught up on some work from last night."

"Sorry," I said, realizing he would have been doing it last night if it weren't for me.

"Don't be—I should be thanking you, really, I hate all the paperwork." He laughed after a moment and shook his head. "I still can't believe you walked into my bar last night."

Eric was right, so right. I replied, in that same disbelieving tone, "It hasn't even been twenty-four hours yet!"

"I know! And I feel like we got more accomplished these past hours than the whole time we worked together," he replied.

"Yeah, for real."

"And you slept over last night, and we're gonna share two of our meals together, and talk a year and a half's worth of conversations tonight. Everything's coming together, after all this time," he said.

"It's like, we kind of have a history of only being history, and we're on the brink of making a new story for ourselves," I mused.

Red light. He looked over at me when he replied, "Absolutely."

I smiled at him, but didn't respond. I'd said everything I could.

Eric was quiet too. But once the light turned green, he barked out a laugh. "We're still in the car on the way to our first date and we're having this deep, meaningful relationship talk."

"We suck at this," I said, giggling at the realization. "But I guess it works, since I slept over the first time we met up in almost two years."

"Sure seems that way. But I guess we'd have to suck at conventional dating, since we're not a conventional pairing."

Did he mean that because of our history or our ages? But I got distracted when Eric suddenly pulled into a parking space that just opened up, and I was too busy admiring his parallel parking skill (something I did not possess, but not for lack of trying) and trying to figure out where we were.

I really only knew the city from what I could walk or take public transportation to, and Eric had driven us somewhere I had never been. It looked like a cool little shopping area, with lots of small businesses and cafes and Christmas lights around the trees.

"Is this it?" I asked eagerly as he met me on the sidewalk.

He took the hand I used to gesture to the group of buildings and held it as he steered me down the sidewalk. "Yeah, I guess. But see, you're asking me all these questions about our date, and that's making me feel like you're expecting me to take you to the moon and back. But all I have planned is a nice, personal dinner at the first restaurant I ate at as a New Orleans resident," he said, looking down at me for my reaction.

Squeezing his hand, I told him, "Eric, don't do that to yourself. This dinner sounds great. And besides, I'm not properly dressed to be taken to the moon and back."

He peeked back, blatantly checking out my ass. It was all flirt and fun when he cheekily replied, "Yeah, I see what you mean. Wouldn't want that dress of yours to fly up."

"Eric!" I squeaked, using my free hand to punch him lightly on the arm. "Stop that!"

"What?" he asked innocently. "You're the one who brought it up."

Even though I wasn't sure he could see it in the night sky, I rolled my eyes. Changing the topic, I said, "So why was this the first place you ate at?"

"Back in the '70s, this restaurant used to be this awesome little punk club for New Orleans's tiny punk scene, and it was kind of the hang out for any mega rock band that played here during that time. Like, all the big bands. Anyway, its heyday ended in the middle of the '80s and then for a while it was like, an art gallery or something like that. And the space just became a restaurant a couple months ago—I think it opened a week or two before I moved here—and I read an article about it."

"What'd the article say?" I asked, totally engrossed.

He explained, "The owners, Josh and Jamie, are these musicphiles who were obsessed with this club. They restored it to its original look and tracked down some of the posters and bills that used to hang here. And then I think they found photos of the bands here online or through donations or something like that, I don't really remember. I haven't been here since that first time. But it just looks so cool and authentic, I knew you'd appreciate it."

By this time we were in the middle of some kind of square, a gathering place with a fountain with colored lights and iron tables and chairs placed all around it where people were sitting. I noticed that there weren't any kids or old people here, and everyone looked under 40. Eric must have taken me to some hip little neighborhood, it seemed. There were little coffee shops and cafes and bakeries and delis, all in buildings of different sizes and colors. I wasn't used to seeing so many colored lights, but it seemed like Christmas lights were the norm around here.

It was like walking in a fairyland of some sorts, where the fairies were hipster twentysomethings and instead of sipping nectar from a flower they were drinking cappuccinos and mochas and glass bottles of soda.

At the end of the road stood an unassuming building with a wooden sign that simply read in black letters, "Bacchus 2.0" The windows were dark and there weren't any hours on the mahogany door.

"The first place was called Bacchus," Eric explained. "Back then, this was kind of a rough area of New Orleans, and it stayed like that until a couple years ago, when the city government cleaned this place up and young, hip people started moving in. I wanted to move the bar here, but I feel like it's a little bit too high-end for the kind of bands I'm trying to book and the people I'm trying to bring in."

He opened the door for me, and I hesitantly walked inside. To be honest, it kind of reminded me of Eric's bar with the I-don't-give-a-fuck ambiance of the decorating: everything wooden, big bar with lots of bottles, rock memorabilia on the walls.

But once I walked in, I realized that this was a classy, calculated I-don't-give-a-fuck—like wearing a $400 purposefully-distressed vintage-looking leather jacket. It didn't look grungey, like the seven-year-old leather jacket bought for $4 at a Salvation Army that was Eric's bar.

"Reservation for Eric," he said, strolling up to the hostess table. There was an awful lot of people waiting to be seated, and an even bigger throng around the bar, but Eric stood tall out of everyone.

"Yes, of course," the hostess said. She was tiny and Asian, and had to look almost straight up through her heavy black bangs to see Eric. "Right this way."

She picked up some menus and started walking down a row, and Eric looked back at me before following her. I hardly noticed, as I was too busy looking at all the photos and posters. Eric hadn't been kidding; it looked like that Bacchus place had been _the_ hangout place of New Orleans during the '70s—like the kind where anyone who was anyone could be found. Looking at the pictures was like looking at a sappy _Rolling Stone _superlative-themed issue, because the musicians in them had written some of the best songs or played on the best albums or were one of the best guitarists in rock and roll history.

The food looked delicious too, and most of the offerings seemed to be classy or fancy versions of bar foods, like bite-sized hamburger sliders and eggplant fries. When we were finally seated at a candle-lit table in the back corner and I opened my menu, I could see that my observation had been correct.

"So what do you think?" Eric asked me. I looked up and saw that he wasn't looking at the menu, and therefore wasn't asking me what I thought of the choices. Instead, he was peering around the room, acting as if he were in a museum rather than a restaurant.

"Yeah, it's great. I already like it," I said, looking at the closest photo to me.

It was a picture of Led Zeppelin sitting in a corner booth much like this one, except it was dated 1973. It would have been awesome to have come here during the '70s and find that Jimmy Page and Robert Plant were in the building.

"Eric! It's so nice to see you," a tall, thin guy with spectacularly groomed thick black eyebrows exclaimed, stopping at our table. He was clean cut J. Crew, with a deep purple button down shirt and a white tie. I couldn't tell what he was wearing for pants, but I was sure they were stylish.

"Josh, hey man! Yeah, it's good to be back," Eric said, offering his hand.

They shook as I connected the dots and figured out this was one of the owners. Once they finished, Eric gestured to me and said, "Josh, this is Sookie, my … girlfriend. Sookie, this is Josh, he owns the place with his girlfriend, Jamie. And where is she tonight?"

I did my best not to let my surprise show as Eric introduced me as his girlfriend. I mean, we had agreed there was something between us we should act on and we wouldn't be with anyone else, but I was more floored with the realization that over twenty-four hours ago I was just walking into this random bar and here I was, a day later, Eric's girlfriend.

"Sookie, it's lovely to meet you," the very smiley Josh said.

"And you as well! I love what you did to this place," I told him.

"Thanks! And you should know, we love Eric here! Jamie, unfortunately, was feeling a little under the weather, but I bet she'll feel even worse when I come home and tell her you were the mysterious Eric for two at 8:30!"

"I'm sorry to hear that; you'll have to tell her I said hi, and this means it's your turn to come to my place," Eric said.

To me he explained, "I talked with these guys for like an hour about the original Bacchus when I first came in and told them about my bar, and they stopped by last week for a couple drinks."

"Yes, definitely. We'll let you know so we can all sit down and catch up," he said. "Anyway, I really must be going, but if there's anything you need just let me know, okay? Nice meeting you, Sookie!"

"You too! Bye now," I said, watching him walk off.

Our waitress came then, probably because she saw her boss walking away from us, and Eric asked for one of the house beers, one that was locally brewed. I ordered the same, figuring it must be good if Eric was having it.

"Is this okay?" Eric asked, watching me look through the menu. His own menu was unopened on the table.

I smiled. "Yeah! Everything looks great—food and décor!"

"Good," he said, sounding relieved. He picked up the menu and looked through it.

We discussed the menu for some time before Eric finally said, "All right, I think I'm gonna have the all-American burger."

I looked up the item on the menu—it was a hamburger with pepper jack and Monterey cheeses with bacon and potato chips.

"I think I'll go with the grilled Cajun chicken sandwich," I said, putting the menu down and folding my hands on the table.

The waitress came with our drinks and took our order, and then Eric and I were alone again. We talked about silly stuff like what bars or restaurants were our favorites in the city before our food was delivered and then, well, shit just got real.

"So, did you meet anyone at Tulane?" Eric tried to ask casually in an off-hand voice.

He innocently took a swig from his beer as I tried not to spit my food across the table.

"You okay?" he asked.

"What, we're gonna do this now?" I asked incredulously.

Looking a little taken aback, he replied, "Well, I mean, if you don't want to right now, we can do it later."

I bit my lip, not sure of what to say.

A moment later, like he'd been holding it in the whole time, he blurted, "But, come on, aren't you curious? Just a little? I'm dying to know about you!"

"But it's the first date," I said plainly.

I'd only been on one before, with Alcide, and so therefore I had more experience watching first dates with fictional characters than actually going on first dates.

And I would probably die if I knew more about Eric's ladies of the night. Not as quickly or painfully as I would have a year and a half ago, but still. I would probably die.

Eric held up a finger and then pointed at his mouth to show he'd say something when he finished chewing. Finally, he asked, "So we should just get it all out in the open then, shouldn't we?"

He had a point—if we were going to do this, we should know everything there was to know about each other. And of course, yeah, I was curious to see who he'd been with, although that was kind of in a car crash kind of way.

"Um, okay, I guess."

"Sookie, I meant it, we don't have to do this right this very second," he tried reasoning.

"No, no, it's fine, you're right, we should know what we're getting into, right?"

"Right," Eric said. After a moment, he looked hard at me and said, "Soo…"

Great. So I was supposed to go first? I guess if he was dying to know, I should put him out of his misery. Although I wasn't too sure that just blurting out my relationship history was the way to go.

I didn't know how to tell him I was reluctant to do this because of my end of things. I was just really scared of the fact that Eric was still more experienced than I was a year and a half ago and I had a sinking feeling I'd still feel as insecure as I had then, even though now it was one boyfriend and one one night stand later for me.

"Well okay then. Uh, I met this guy Alcide. He was my first boyfriend. We first met in March and had our first date in April and we broke up the week of Halloween," I told Eric as I watched him tense up in his seat.

"You had a boyfriend," he said, more to himself than to me.

I could see the wheels turning in his head and practically saw a little thought bubble pop up over his head: _Sookie had a boyfriend and it wasn't me_.

"Uh, yeah. He was, you see … his longtime girlfriend cheated on him a couple weeks before he met me, so he had, um, trust issues of his own," I said.

The hurt puppy dog look on Eric's face just affirmed that we shouldn't have done this. I knew it. Part of the reason I had given him when I turned him down was that he was too perfect for someone as flawed as me. I guessed we were both remembering that right about now.

"And you were with him for seven months?" he asked. His eyes were so blue, so pleadingly blue, in that moment.

"Yeah. And we did a lot in seven months, and he really helped me kind of, I don't know, get my groove back. We had sex. It started in August," I said.

Blurting out seemed to be all I was good at doing. That, and hurting Eric. I felt like I was kicking Eric when he was already down, but it was like once I got something out there I had to get everything out. He said we needed to know everything. Well, this was everything.

Eric, for his part, was nibbling on a French fry and was taking for-fucking-ever to finish chewing. I was sweating so much I was sure my thighs would stick to the leather seating and make an awful squishy farting noise when I'd move when Eric would tell me to leave because he changed his mind about giving us a go.

"Was he good to you?" he finally asked.

I didn't know if he meant in or out of bed. Either way, the answer was the same: "He was the good as he could be, until he decided he wanted to get back together with his ex. That's why we broke up."

"Did you love him?" His eyes were on me again, after being on the table for a while. His eyebrows were raised, and he was obviously waiting for my answer.

"No," I told him.

He nodded his head as he drummed his fingers on the table. After a couple seconds, he looked up at me again and asked, "Was there anyone else?"

"Um, yeah. He wasn't a boyfriend, though. He was just a random one night stand. That was back in the end of January," I said.

I didn't want to tell him I hooked up with a NCAA division one quarterback.

Eric was silent for like the longest three seconds of my life once I finished. "What about that Sam guy?" was all he asked.

"Sam? He works at the bar with me. We've never done anything and never will … I think he has a crush on me. Or, maybe had, after last night," I said.

"I'd say I'm sorry…" Eric said, not sounding the least bit apologetic.

"But you're not," I supplied.

He looked at me, really looked at me, for a minute and then his gaze dropped to the table. Then back up at me again, and in the two seconds it took to do that he took on an apologetic facial expression. "All right. Guess that makes it my turn, then. And, uh, I kind of went in the opposite direction…" he said, trailing off at the end.

Oh, God. Here we go. Top of the roller coaster.

"The longest relationship—really, the only relationship I've had since you went off to college—was for three months," he said, sounding apologetic. "Her name was Aude, and we really weren't that serious at all. She met someone else, and I wasn't too attached. I went on more dates than women I had sex with. A lot more dates. And the people I slept with were one night stands, for the most part. I'm not going to try and sugar coat the facts."

He stopped talking to look at where I was clutching my knife. "Do you want me to tell you the number?"

I followed his gaze and dropped the knife like it was molten metal when I realized what I'd been doing.

"I don't know. Maybe later. Not right now," I said.

When I saw the hurt look on his face, I hurriedly added, "Eric I'm not judging, at all. Well, okay, that's a lie. I'm judging a little. But not for the reason you'd expect—that I'm jealous. In all actuality, it's really because it makes me feel self-conscious. When I hear about these women, I just assume that they're sexier than me and more confident than me and have more experience than me. I mean … I mean, you have much more experience than I do. I've only had sex with two guys," I said, lowering my voice at the end so I practically whispered how many men I'd slept with.

It was a testament to how much Eric understood me that he didn't correct me and say that no, I've only had _willing_ sex with two guys. He must have picked up on something I had a while ago, which was that Bill didn't—never would, even—count in my book. Now he didn't count in Eric's book either.

"No, no, no, Sookie, don't you go looking at it like that—I sure as hell don't!" Eric told me, reaching across the table for my hand now that it wasn't holding the knife.

His touch warmed me, and so did his words when he passionately told me, "Sookie, you have so much more experience with dating than I do! That's all you've ever known, for the most part—you had this long, mature relationship with the first boy you tried. The longest relationship I ever had, not just in the past year and a half but for my whole life, wasn't as long as yours and I wasn't nearly as young as you were!" he protested, running a hand through his hair.

Oh. Huh. Talk about walking a mile—dating a mile—in the other person's shoes.

After letting that sink in, Eric added, "Okay, yes, I have slept with a lot of women and yes, that means I have a lot more experience than you. There's no point in dancing around it. But, I mean, see, you know how to be in a relationship and how to be a good girlfriend, which I'm sure you are. I don't know how to be a boyfriend, not really. Especially not for someone I'm as crazy about as I am about you. It's so much harder to know how to be in a relationship than to say, I don't know, be good at blow jobs or fucking or whatever. You know? I mean, like, you can teach a prostitute how to give a blow job but can you really teach her to know what to say to her boyfriend after he's had a long day or how to help him host a party? No, I don't think you can, or that doing so is easier. Not that you're a prostitute or anything like that, of course!"

I could tell he was serious, and this was really the way he looked at things. That knocked the fear right out of me.

We were both experienced in what was easiest for us—for Eric, it was more about the sex, and for me it was more about the emotional connection. And we each had what the other was scared of trying.

Ying and yang. Two halves make one whole. Opposites attract. It was like we were meant to be together.

Clichés, all of them. And yet, all of them were true.

"I guess I never looked at this from your way," I softly confessed, stroking the back of his hand with my thumb.

"And Sookie, you deserve to have a nice, good, decent, funny boyfriend than, like, three orgasms every Friday night, you know? And I think I'm finally in the place in my life where I want to be that boyfriend, and can be, and where I want to have that girlfriend."

He paused, replaying his words. "Not that, um, I'm … bringing your, uh, sexual skills into question. Because I'm not. Because I'm sure they're really good. Not I've thought of them—a lot, anyways—but, like, not in a pervy way, but just in, I don't know, a guy way? Because of the kissing. And having you in my bed. Twice. Fuck, why am I still talking? Shit. And now I'm swearing. Great."

He laughed nervously and shook his head before looking down at the table. Puppies had never looked as adorable as a blushing, flustered Eric putting his face in his hands like he was doing now. It was so, so hard not to laugh at how obviously embarrassed he felt right now.

I'd been so nervous to have this relationship slash exes talk. It was so relieving to know that I wasn't the only one and that we were both feeling the same way. Like, cool glass of lemonade on a hot summer day relieving.

"Eric, stop, you're fine. Listen," I said, and he finally picked his head up. "Look, now we know that we have things that we're comfortable with and used to, and things that we're not. So what? That just means that all of our cards are already on the table, and we just need to sit down and take a deep look at them. Together. And work out our insecurities. Together."

"We can teach each other," he said, staring hard at me. He got where I was going with this.

I grinned. "Yeah. Teach each other. I like that."

I reached over and held his hand that had been circling the neck of his beer bottle. He stopped his movements and flipped his hand over to receive mine. No one spoke for a moment as we just sat watching each other and holding hands.

"Yeah. I like that too."

After a moment, he looked down and did his half-smile thing back up at me. Self-deprecatingly, he remarked, "Christ, I can't believe I'm the older one in this conversation. You were like, Mr. Miyagi relationship sensei thirty seconds ago."

"Aren't girls supposed to be more mature than guys? So if we follow that philosophy, I think we even each other out, don't you?" I said, remembering my earlier thoughts about being opposites and ying and yang and all those clichés.

"Yeah, I do," he answered, looking more relieved than he had this whole conversation.

…

**EPOV**

God, Sookie must be the only girl on the planet who wouldn't run away or politely pretend like she was going to the bathroom after hearing my absolute train wreck of a speech. It was like the words in my head were guitar notes I was trying to play through a talk box and it just wasn't coming out like I thought they would. But she stuck around and—get this—actually talked me through my stupid little word freak out and made me feel a hell of a lot better about myself and what I was doing with her.

I felt like the stupid one in this relationship—or the youngest, or the more inexperienced. All my insecurities were coming out. And yeah, they were coming out at the same time that Sookie's were, but somehow I was the one freaking out more about it. Or maybe she had been quietly freaking out, I don't know.

All I know is, I had been right in thinking we needed to address our exes before we could start thinking about ourselves.

And even once our little thing was over, our date still wasn't typical. Instead of talking about ourselves, we talked about our mutual friends. Doing that had the potential of making it seem like we were on a blind date set up by those mutual friends, but it really didn't. The last time Sookie had seen Amelia and Stan had been the last time she'd seen me, and those guys had really changed and grown up a lot in this past year and a half just like I had.

As great as our bromance was, I still hadn't seen Stan since I left Looney Tunes. But, to be fair, we did talk on the phone once a week, which was a big deal since it's practically unheard of for a friend to just call up a friend and talk when they could be doing this via Facebook or Twitter or email or texting.

"Aaaawh, you guys are so cute," Sookie gushed once I told her about our weekly calls.

We usually talked on Sundays. Today was Saturday, which meant tomorrow would be the Sunday when I talked to Stan.

Holy shit, would I have a good answer to the "What's new with you?" he always asked.

When I told Sookie that, she just laughed. "What do you think he'll say?" she asked after a couple moments.

I shrugged. "I don't know, probably something like 'took you long enough!' or 'I told you it'd happen eventually."

"He knew you liked me?" she asked, thoroughly confused.

"Well, yeah, almost as soon as he met you. Same with Amelia. Most of the time back then I felt like everyone knew I had this big crush on you except for you."

The way her eyes widened only seemed to confirm this.

"It's just that he never said anything. Sometimes Amelia would hint at something, and that time Pam got really drunk with me she implied something, but I just kind of brushed those off, you know? I thought Amelia just wanted to, I don't know, stir up some drama and, well, just that Pam was drunk off her ass. But stoic little Stan always kept his mouth shut," she confessed.

"Bros before … girls you like but never think you'll get because they work with you and they're still in high school," I joked.

She rolled her eyes but laughed with me.

"Did you know he got married to Isabelle, in January?" I asked.

"Yeah, I saw it on Facebook," she said. "By the way, did you get rid of yours or something?"

It was such a simple question, but I was hesitant to tell her I deactivated my Facebook partially because I was tired of seeing pictures of her in her new life. I'd been doing so well at not scaring her away so far and I didn't want to push my luck.

"I deactivated it a couple months after you left, I guess. Just wasn't as into it as I used to be," I said.

It was the truth, but it wasn't all of it.

Even so, I guessed Sookie saw a connection between the two. Or maybe she didn't. All I knew was that she bit her lip and then changed the subject again, asking if I talked to Amelia a lot.

"No, not at all. It's been radio silence since I got rid of my Facebook. She met this guy, Tray Dawson, and he treated her like an absolute princess. I don't really know him, but if he could put up with Amelia for, what, a year now I think, and then I gotta give him props. They live in Vermont and she's still growing pot. I think they live on a farm or something and she paints as a hobby, I don't really know. She doesn't talk a lot to Pam, who says Amelia rarely posts anything on Facebook anyway."

"That sounds like such an Amelia thing to do—meet a guy and move to a different part of the country in this bohemian life thing with him," she said.

I laughed. "Yeah, it really does. She always said she was meant to be a hippy and thought she should have been born in the sixties. I guess she figured moving to Vermont was the best she could do."

By this time the waitress came to take our plates away and ask if we wanted dessert, and I said just the check would be fine. Sookie shot me a questioning look, and I explained there was this cupcake bakery around the block I wanted to take her to, and she seemed okay with that.

Just as I expected, Sookie fought with me over the check. I gave her every reason why she shouldn't, like that she's a broke college kid and that I asked her out so I should pay, but I didn't pull out the old "I'm the guy" card because I knew she wouldn't be too happy with that. Instead, I ended up telling her she could buy the cupcakes and we'd be even, to which she said the cupcakes and the tip here and I gave in because I knew she just wouldn't give up and I really wanted my damn cupcake.

I don't know why, but specialty cupcake shops were like a thing now, and I saw them all over the place in New Orleans. I had a sweet tooth (and a salty tooth, and a pizza tooth, and a beer tooth, but that was neither here nor there) so of course I'd tried a cupcake in every shop. And I thought this one had the most creative and inventive cupcakes and that Sookie would like it.

She did. As soon as we entered the store and smelled the mixed aroma of all of the batter and frosting she closed her eyes and smiled as she inhaled deeply, and I knew I made the right choice. Even though we were both standing like a foot away from the display case, she kept hitting my elbow and pointing out the same cupcakes to me that were right in front of me just like they were right in front of her. She was so cute about it, though.

Sookie ended up getting the chocolate chip cookie dough cupcake—they had put a spoonful of chocolate chip cookie dough batter in the vanilla cupcake batter and baked it, so it was like a cookie within a cupcake, and the vanilla frosting had little chunks of cookie dough in it.

I felt a little guilty that the first immediate reaction would be that that was the best food to eat while high.

I still smoked pot whenever I could, but lately it was more to help me relax after a long night and fall asleep rather than because I had the afternoon off or was at a party. It made me wonder if Sookie had gotten around to trying pot in college, since she seemed to be okay drinking at Tulane. But now wasn't the time to ask.

My rootbeer float cupcake (vanilla cupcake, rootbeer-enfused frosting), as delicious as it was, probably wouldn't have been that good of a munchy. But that was okay, since Sookie and I ended up cutting each of our cupcakes in half so we could share them. We also split the hot chocolate that I ordered and the milk that she ordered, taking turns sipping out of the cups.

With the dinner and the date and the cupcake, I was officially in heaven, and Sookie said she felt the same way after I said my declaration out loud.

I almost pointed out that I didn't give her a trip to the moon but I did give her a trip to heaven, but I thought that was too sappy and corny and so I kept it to myself even though it would have gotten me laid if it had been any other girl but Sookie. She probably would have rolled her eyes, but then a couple seconds later when she thought I wasn't looking would have smiled to herself and blushed.

"Oh my God, that was so good," she said, rubbing her tubby as we left the store.

"Yeah?" I asked.

She looked up at me and smiled. "Hell yeah! Thank you so much for showing me these places! We'll have to come back sometime!"

_Yeah we would_.

"So, uh, if you're not completely out, I was thinking maybe we could swing by the bar and have a drink? I didn't really get to show it off to you yesterday, and there's a little promotion for a local band getting signed to a record label," I offered as we walked back to the car.

"Yeah, let's do that! But wait, am I fancy enough?" she said, looking down at her outfit.

"Fancy enough for me," I reassured her. She looked great and well, I always liked those boots on her. I was such a legs guy.

I liked bringing Sookie to my bar and calling it my bar. I liked putting a hand on her back as I guided her around the place, talking in her ear about the different vintage posters on the wall and what bands had played here so far. I liked bringing her behind the bar and telling her I worked here on the off nights—Sunday through Wednesday—when she asked if I ever was the bartender. And I liked that she asked a follow-up question about what I do Thursday through Saturday, which is make sure the concerts run smoothly and keep an eye on things.

I introduced her to the band and their manager. I knew all the guys since one used to work in the warehouse for Looney Tunes (once a Looney Tune, always a Looney Tune) and I was so fucking excited for his big break. But just like last night when I brought Sookie over to meet the band, she was more interested in hanging out with me than flirting with the lead guitarist or something. Not that she would, but still. She acted like I was the rock star and I really liked that.

After a couple minutes of small talk, I brought Sookie over to the bar where Pam was fixing herself a glass of wine. Since tonight was kind of a big deal, we'd used our part time bouncer so Pam could rule in my absence, as she said.

I made Sookie a gin and tonic and then Pam came over to talk. She was asking Sookie all the getting-to-know-you things I'd asked her today or last night—how is school? how have you been?—and I figured I could leave them alone for a couple minutes for their girl talk. Hopefully Sookie wouldn't get Pam drunk again like the last time.

Plus, we had just gotten a new shipment of these awesome old-school bitters that I was really excited about, and I wanted to geek out over them in the privacy of the stock room.

"I have to go check on a couple things, but I'll be back in like fifteen minutes," I told Sookie once there was a moment of silence in her conversation with Pam.

"Sure, Eric," she said easily. I kissed her on the cheek and walked away so I couldn't hear the rest of the snarky comment Pam started to make by saying, "Well, isn't that …"

Pam had even come into work during the day today—something she rarely did on a week day and never on a weekend day—to ask about what happened last night with Sookie. Although, maybe her comment wasn't so snarky, since earlier today she'd been supportive of my decision to start something with Sookie and take things really slow with her, so maybe she had turned a new leaf or something. I mean, Sookie and I had done that sometime in our respective pasts so why couldn't she?

When I finished looking over the bitters that I couldn't wait to experiment with tomorrow afternoon, I went back to Sookie and Pam, where they were sitting in the same booth I had left them in. Sookie scooched over as soon as I returned with a fresh gin and tonic for her and a glass of Pam's favorite Chardonnay, as well as a beer for me, and I got in on her side of the booth.

They'd been talking about the politics at the Looney Tunes shop in New Orleans, something I hadn't really talked about with Sookie, and I eagerly listened to Sookie's stories about competitive hipsters too cool to show the new girl the ropes and stuff. I felt bad because I had gotten her that job, but those guys had always been nice to me at the annual holiday party. Maybe it's because we always got really drunk together, I don't know.

"Plus, there was that one time Eric visited the shop without contacting me first to see when I'd be working," Sookie said, arching her eyebrow as she turned to look at me.

Pam shot me a questioning look. "Eric visited the New Orleans shop?"

Yeah, I hadn't told her about that. I'd done it when Pam thought I was "over" Sookie and I clearly hadn't been.

"Wait, you didn't know?" Sookie asked, turning to look at Pam.

Pam shook her head, and then they both turned at the same time to stare me down. _I hoped this ganging-up-on-Eric thing wouldn't be a permanent thing. _

"Yeah, um, about that…" I said. "I had to go to New Orleans and I thought I'd randomly pop in and Sookie would be there and it'd be, like, another sign that it was fate or destiny and we were meant to be together."

"Maybe it didn't work out because we weren't meant to be together at that time," Sookie said, rushing to our defense.

I shrugged. "I don't know. I was stupid and weak and wanted a sign. I guess it had to be you walking into my place of employment instead of the other way around to get things going between us."

Sookie leaned over and kissed my cheek, and when I turned my head she kissed my lips too. "Definitely that," she murmured into my ear before she resumed her normal seating position.

As the band started playing, I carelessly put my arm around her shoulder. It felt good to finally have my arm around her and not fret about it. I had my girl and my music and my beer and I was all set. I was finally all set.


	19. Second Drinks

**A/N: Hope this story finds you well in 2012! Sorry for the lack of updating. Work was busier than I thought (and who says the economy sucks? I had to fight to get a spot in the parking lot almost everyday!) and then I got disgustingly sick, but here I am. Tah-dah! Hah. **

**Thanks, as always, to my beta chiisai-kitty. Not only does she correct my grammatical mistakes, but she commiserates with me on our general inability to properly use chopsticks in a way that doesn't make the nearby people think we have claws or fins for hands. **

**...**

**SPOV**

After having a drink at Eric's bar—something that felt as grown-up as it sounded—Eric dropped me off back home, like a perfect gentleman. Well, he wasn't when he was making out with me at my front door, but maybe that's because I wasn't acting like a perfect lady when I initiated it.

I loved that I could just kiss Eric whenever I felt like it, and he wouldn't mind at all. Or that I could say things like, "Want to hang out tomorrow?" and he'd say, "Sure, what time?"

This was after the whopper of a kiss he laid on me.

In movies (or in other people's dating lives), I thought the kiss on the front steps at the end of the date meant "I had fun with you, let's do this again" but apparently for Eric and I it had a different meaning, one of "I had fun with you, let's figure out when we can do this again RIGHT NOW instead of waiting around the phone for your call three or four days later."

That was quite all right with me.

"Could it be something later? I want to get some work done tomorrow, since this week is midterms week, and I have a meeting with a professor at three, but that should only last for like fifteen minutes," I said.

"You have a meeting with a professor on a Sunday?" he asked.

"Yeah," I shrugged. "It's for my literature in pop culture class, and my professor is like, an actual journalist and writer so he only comes on campus for this class and another. He's going to give me his edits on my draft for a term paper."

"Huh. Okay. Cool," Eric said. "I'll be at the bar at four, and it opens at five. Why don't you come over whenever you can, and we'll figure it out from there? We could have dinner again."

I loved that he was so easygoing and whatever about this. That was what I needed, especially since I seemed to be the one obsessing about us and he needed to balance me out.

"Okay. I'll swing by around five or so."

"I can give you money for a cab," he offered. "That's the best way to get there, I think. I'm pretty sure the only way to take public transportation includes two separate buses and walking a couple blocks."

"No, that's okay. I have the cab fare," I said.

"I get next time, then," he argued.

"All righty," I conceded.

After a minute, he asked, "Wait, so if you have midterms next week, is your spring break the week after?"

"Yeah."

"What were you going to do for that?"

"Just stay here and work," I told him. "Gran's Descendants of the Glorious Dead is taking a bus to Vicksburg for most of the week, so there really was no point in going home."

"So you're going to be in New Orleans then? Awesome. More Eric-and-Sookie time," he said, kissing me again.

"I like Eric-and-Sookie time," I told him.

"It's the best," he said, in between kisses. Then, once we were both panting, he took a step back and said, "I know I should let you inside, but I just like that I once promised you I'd get you home on date nights at a reasonable hour and kiss you on your front porch, and now I'm actually doing that."

"I like that too," I informed him. And I really liked that he was reveling in the newness of this too, and how it felt like we were fulfilling a prophecy of some sort.

After a couple more frantic kisses, he stopped. "It's for real, this time. Good night."

"Bye. Have a good night," I told him, and watched him walk to his car and wave before he got in.

Once inside, I saw that Tara had written me a note saying she was working the late shift tonight and she'd hear all about my date tomorrow, so I just spent the rest of the night working on the various essays that'd be due next week.

And the next morning, I got up early to work some more. Since I was able to take more classes in the English department now that I'd taken most of the standard requirements, I had more papers due as a final than an actual test, and that one was just for French, my language requirement. I'd meant to do more work yesterday, but obviously that didn't happen.

_Of course_ I would get together with Eric the weekend before midterms. That _would _happen to me.

Though I'd already submitted my draft for my professor to read and give edits on, I still gave it a look through that morning and made some edits. I wanted it to be good, because I liked it and I liked my professor.

Todd, as he told us to call him, wasn't like the others. He was young (middle thirties) and skinny and bald, but still seemed like the cool professor. But, he wasn't actually a professor and didn't have a PhD—something someone had actually questioned the first day of class when he told us. He also said he was really at Tulane as the editor of an arts and culture blogazine the university published and he'd chosen the job because it paid the bills in between stories or assignments he wrote about in actual publications, like _GQ _and _Travel + Leisure._ He was a travel journalist first, an editor at the blogazine second, and was teaching a class on literature in pop culture because it was in his contract that he needed to teach a class a term. He was funny and insightful and smart, just like his class.

That first day, he'd made us read passages from _Twilight_—ignoring the groans and shaking heads—about Bella Swan's reading of _Wuthering Heights. _Then he handed out a copy of an article on how the sales of _Wuthering Heights _had increased since _Twilight _was published. That one also included something about how new editions of the book came out with the _Twilight _seal of approval, with a revamped cover that was black with a big red flower on the front and a sticker proclaiming it "Bella and Edward's Favorite Book." He also had us read an article with pictures of new editions of _Romeo and Juliet _and _Pride and Prejudice _had come out with decidedly _Twilight _looking covers, black with a big white or red object—a single red rose for the former and a white and red flower for the latter.

That started the debate of whether the makeover was a good thing. I thought that if it made teenage girls who probably read more grammatically incorrect text messages than books want to try these literary classics, it was worth it, as anything that got someone to put down their phone and pick up a book seemed all right.

But no one else agreed when I said that. This one kid Peter said something about how Shakespearewould be rolling in his grave if he know, and I accidentally blurted out exactly what I was thinking, which was that he had no idea what Shakesepeare would be doing because a.) just like the rest of the world, he had no idea who Shakespeare was, and b.) Shakespeare wouldn't know who Bella or Edward or Stephanie Meyer even was.

A couple kids sniggered, and Peter angrily started talking about the integrity of the artist and his work and blah blah blah. I didn't pay any attention to it, because I was too busy trying to ignore the curious gaze Todd was giving me. He let Peter finish before he announced class was dismissed and he'd see us all on Thursday.

I walked out that day with more interest in the class than I usually gave on the first day.

In class, Todd laughed a lot, a nervous chuckle that always sounded like he was laughing at something he knew he shouldn't be laughing at but couldn't help it. Maybe he was. A lot of the people in the class said stupid things in class (like bringing up Voltaire when we were discussing _The Jersey Shore_)and he'd laugh and say this wasn't meant to be a serious class. But everyone took it too seriously, it seemed, except for me and him.

People said things to show off their intelligence, but I thought it was really highlighting their pretentiousness. Sometimes I wanted to write down what they were saying, not because they were so great but so I could go home and Google the phrases and see if they had taken their ideas from a scholar who was paid to be pretentious. Every ordinary "I think that" or "I feel like" or "I related to" was followed by something so crafted with old SAT words that I couldn't help but feel like someone, somewhere, had already said the things they were saying and had already made the points they were foolishly trying to make.

I usually only talked in discussions when someone made a point that was so out there I couldn't keep my mouth shut. But I had no trouble answering Todd's questions, and I always did very well on graded assignments. His papers were usually very open-ended, like the time we had to write a thousand words on a book whose plot would make a good reality show and I'd written about how _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas _would probably do very well on MTV, and I never got a grade lower than an A.

There were usually markings on my paper in his green pen—he said red pens stressed him out as the grader and probably stressed us out too—but they were always about ideas he had about my ideas, never issues he had with my arguments or a grammatical mistake I'd made. Once or twice he even drew a goofy little smiley face at a part he really liked or wrote, "Haha!"

Sometimes he'd come to class late, his plaid shirt looking wrinkly and even more informal under his blazer, and apologize saying he'd just gotten into town. He never said where he'd been, or before that where he was going, unless someone asked him directly, and it made him even more Bond-like. I liked to think it was because he was going out in the world and wasn't suffocating in a stuffy office that he had his head cleared of the bullshit that was plaguing everyone else's mind.

It was at the end of the semester when Todd told the class he'd be calling us to meet with him for fifteen minutes to discuss our term paper. He'd passed around a sheet of paper with times and dates on it, and I liked that next to those numbers were words like "Starbucks on campus" or "That coffee shop on Market Street that doesn't have a website I could find its name on." He hadn't offered to meet with any of his students at his office.

I signed up to meet him at the Starbucks on campus, and when I went there at the appropriate date and time he was sitting at a table drinking a coffee and reading the newspaper. He was wearing the same uniform he usually wore in class—blazer, jeans, and button-down shirt underneath—but they looked more casual somehow in this environment.

When I approached his table, Todd sat up and greeted me without shaking my hand and then sat back down just as promptly. He didn't tell me to take a seat, but perhaps that was because this wasn't his seat in his office, like the other seats professors had offered me in the past, but rather Starbucks' seat.

He took out his briefcase and balanced it in his lap as he searched for my draft that I'd sent in 48 hours before the meeting, like the sheet of paper had said. When he finally found it, he put his briefcase back on the floor and unceremoniously dropped the paper on the table.

He didn't say anything for a moment, and I began to shift in my seat. Was it _that _bad? There wasn't a single marking on the front page. Usually there were marks, even on my A papers.

The term paper topic had been, literally, anything we wanted that had to do with literature and pop culture. I'd ended up writing about the significance of the color of clothes in _The_ _Great Gatsby_ and how it related to the social status of the wearer and then how the clothes were portrayed in the Robert Redford movie version, and now I was scared I'd completely missed the mark and had gotten it all wrong somehow.

"You like my class, but not the people in it," he finally ended up going with.

I was unprepared for his bluntness and stared at him. He raised his eyebrows at me, expecting something from me. A rebuttal maybe, or an agreement. Something other than my dumbfounded gaze.

"I guess," I mumbled.

"It's all right to do more than guess about how you feel, you know. And don't worry about offending me—I feel the same way about those little snots sometime. They really weren't the kind of students I had in mind when I proposed this class."

I didn't like what he was saying in his professor faux pas. This was wrong. Weren't all teachers supposed to like their students, or at least pretend to?

I looked back at my paper, away from his steely gaze, and he noticed.

"Don't worry about your paper," he barked. "It's great—they're always great. Worrying about your paper makes you like the rest of them."

Why did he feel like I was on his side? How was he an outcast—was it because he didn't have a beard and never wore khakis? Sure, he had a briefcase, but it was obviously an ironic one, since it was so beat up and covered in stickers for bands, for presidents, for companies. When I looked down, I noticed he was wearing Converse sneakers.

"What should I be worrying about, then?"

"You should worry about being published."

"What?"

Todd eagerly leaned forward on his elbows as he spoke. "Published. Being paid to write. I think you could do it. You're an English major, right? Why's that?"

I wished I'd bought a drink or a snack before I sat down, so I could do something with my hands. "I like reading, and I don't have a head for math or science."

"What do you want to do with your degree?" he pushed.

"Be an English teacher," I told him.

He shook his head. "No, no, no. You've got it all wrong. You're supposed to be an English teacher with an English degree if you can't get a job as a journalist or an editor or a writer or whatever other kind of job you can get with a liberal arts degree. And if you can't sit through my class twice a week with all the smart alecks, how do you think you're gonna be able to sit through your own classes, with your own smart alecks, every day?"

He was blunt, and condescending, but the part that really stuck a nerve was that everything he'd said, I'd already said to myself, in my head.

Did I _really _want to be an English teacher? I didn't know. All I knew was that I wanted to do something that would let me read and maybe write every day. I'd thought being an English teacher would fulfill that, but now I wasn't so sure. It sounded so boring saying I wanted to be an English teacher—mostly because I'd probably end up at a school in suburbia and I didn't want to move back into anywhere with a white picket fence in a five mile radius. I loved the city, and though I had no idea what I'd be doing after college or where, I knew I wanted it to be in a big city, if not New Orleans itself.

Of course, this was something I'd kept to myself. I hadn't even told Gran during our weekly Sunday night phone calls about this nagging feeling I'd been having for some time. Our financial situation wasn't great enough that I could entertain not knowing what I wanted to do. I certainly didn't want to be a waitress for the rest of my life.

It annoyed me that he'd figured it out for himself, and he didn't even know me that well.

But I pushed that aside and instead argued, "I don't want to be a professor at a quasi Ivy League school. I want to be a high school English teacher and maybe bring a writing center to the school or advise the school paper."

Gran would have had my head on a plate if she'd heard me talking to one of my professors like that. But she wasn't here and Todd was, and Todd didn't give a shit. He probably loved that I was speaking up for myself.

"You should be writing for the school paper, not advising a theoretical one," he replied. "You have good ideas, and you can execute them well. You think outside the box, often, and you act more mature than others in your class. I want you to write for my blogazine."

"What?" I managed to say, despite being blindsided. I'd come to get a paper and was instead handed a job.

"I'll pay you to write and edit. Not much, but better than what you'd be making doing it for someone else. Freelance journalism is a thing again, and the economy's just enough that you could make a living off of it, especially as a college kid or someone fresh out of college. Plus, you can go to shows and museums for free, as long as you give me 500 words on it and do it twice a week at a fifty cents a word, and if you wanted to come on as an editor then I could give you maybe 6 hours a week at minimum wage too."

I thought about it. All that money to go do or see something I'd probably have read about in a local newspaper or magazine but was too thrifty to go, and for something that was as long as an online post I made in my hybrid class once a week that took me twenty minutes to write. And then double it, to about six hundred dollars a week. Less, after taxes, but still, that was a lot of money. That was just a little bit more than I was making at the bar, and for a fraction of the amount of work that took.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked. _Why me?_

"I like your writing. And you're quiet and have a lot of ideas that I think you're not saying, and I'm interested in those ideas so much that I'd pay you to tell them to me, which is what I'm offering," he said. "Plus, you seem like you've lived life, unlike than those sheltered kids with their helicopter parents calling me after grades are posted, like this is a middle school and not a large-scale private university. You'd deliver quality writing, real writing."

Todd was right in thinking that I'd lived life. But I didn't think it was my rape that separated me from my peers.

"I've never written an article before, or reviewed something," I stated, not to protest but just so he would know.

It didn't bother him. "That's a good thing. You're fresh, and not jaded into thinking there's a formula into doing all of this. That's what this needs. Look, the website is put out by the university, which is where all of the money is coming from, and you're going to make good contacts by doing this and by sticking with me. You have a job right now?"

"Yeah. I waitress at the All-Nighter," I answered.

"You like it?"

"It's okay."

"How's the money?"

"All right."

"Well, this will be more than okay and all right. You won't have to work as much, and certainly not at the hours I'm assuming you work. This will give you a lot more free time and money, and I promise you won't come home smelling like beer and grease and sweat—unless, of course, you want to. Maybe you have all your shit together and you could work both jobs, but you wouldn't have to."

Todd was a good salesman, which probably was why he was a good journalist. I wasn't too crazy about my job at the All-Nighter, and this sounded infinitely more interested. Plus, writing was always easy for me, and fun, and if I was getting paid to go out more and explore the city then I could have a lot worse jobs.

Plus, if I took this job, I could probably have more time to spend with Eric. Maybe I would take Eric up on his offer to work at his bar, and then I'd have even more money coming in every week. That would help a lot. And maybe Eric could go to these things with me, and that would be how we'd hang out with our busy, conflicting schedules.

"Can I think about it? I mean, next week is midterms week," I said.

"Sure, sure. I get it. Here, take my business card. The website for the blog is on there—go and read some stuff and get a feel for what I'm looking for. I'll email you the first week back and we can meet up and talk some more."

"Who else do you have writing for you?" I asked, suddenly struck with the thought that maybe this wasn't the first time he'd done this for what was supposed to be a quick meeting about a term paper draft.

"The staff's very small. There are four other writers, all juniors or seniors, and all English majors. One is an editor at the school newspaper, and another works at the writing center. I've got a grad student as the managing editor, and she does most of the editing work and posting when I'm not in the office, which is often. I'm not sure if you'd know them, but I just got the grant money to start this blog a month ago and it's just about up and running. One of my writers quit on me and I thought of you when trying to come up with a replacement."

He listed the names of "his writers," but none of them were familiar to me.

"Just think about it," he urged. "And while you're thinking about it, maybe think about what kind of 'beat' you could cover."

"A beat?" I asked.

"Yeah. You know, like a topic. We'll have meetings twice a week at the office where you'll come in and pitch your ideas. I'm not saying you have to become the museum girl or the theater girl, but if you know what you want to write about it will make the proposals easier to come up with."

"What are some of the other beats?" I asked.

"Well, this one girl is really into food, so we give her $40 a week to try out restaurants around campus that could fit in with a student's budget. Another guy's into drinks, so we give him, I think, $30 a week to try out bars or make his own drinks or something. We'd give you a budget each week for your stories, if you wanted to go this route. That's why I'm telling you about this. Of course, you don't have to have a beat. Some writers don't, and it works out okay for everyone. But if there was something you're interested in, we could see what we could do for it."

"What about music? Is anyone doing that?"

His eyes lit up. "No, not really. Why, would you be interested in that?"

I nodded. "I worked at a record store, in high school."

Like everyone else I'd said that to at Tulane, his eyebrows rose and he smiled. Saying I worked at a record store, and did so in high school, was like a discreet way of saying I was cool and knew what I was talking about when it came to music.

"All right," he said, drumming his hands on the table. "That could work. I don't know how much your budget would be—I'll have to talk to the higher-ups about that. You probably wouldn't be seeing a big name every week."

"That's fine. I could do local bands, or new bands. It's not like the average college kid is going to be able to see a big name every week either. And maybe I could review new albums that come out."

He grinned at me. "Now you're getting it."

"I still want to think about your offer, though."

He nodded. "Of course."

And then another student came, since our appointment was technically over, and I picked up the paper and shook Todd's hand. "Don't forget to email me your final draft by next Friday!" he said, and I stifled a laugh since we had barely discussed my paper.

I walked out of that Starbucks dazedly. I knew I'd told Todd I wanted time to think it over and would have to wait until break to do that, but that was a big fat lie. I wanted to do it before I left the Starbucks, and I think he knew that too but just went along with it.

I knew I'd tell Eric about this new job opportunity, but it was too early to be making a decision with him in mind. Or was it? It'd be bad if I didn't tell him. I had to tell him.

I felt like it was wildly anti-feminist of me, but I knew taking the writing job would probably give me a lot more free time, and with the recent injection of Eric in my daily life, that would mostly translate to giving me a lot more free time with Eric. He could go to all the shows with me, maybe. It'd be fun.

Maybe it was time for a change. I was tired of the All-Nighter. If I was going to finally be making a thing with Eric and bring him back in my life, I could do some more personal spring cleaning too and get rid of the All-Nighter. I'd come back next semester new and improved.

The whole walk back to my apartment and doing a French textbook exercise and then getting ready for tonight was practically done on autopilot, because all I did was mull over the job offer.

There wasn't a bouncer at the door, but that's probably because the bar had just opened at five, and I got there at like 5:20. There were only a couple people at a couple tables, with one waitress serving them all, from what I could tell.

Eric was at the bar with a pen and paper, counting the bottles, and he'd stopped and came out to greet me with a big hug and kiss once I came.

"How was the meeting?" he asked.

Wow. Of course I'd have to get right into this. I nervously fingered the straps of my backpack (I'd brought my laptop and some homework, in case Eric had things he needed to do tonight) before answering, "He offered me a job writing for him."

"That's incredible!" he gushed. He looked at my face and suddenly became unsure. "It is a good thing, right?"

He led me over to a bar stool and pulled one out for me, pushing it in before he sat down. "I don't know. The pay's better than what I make at the All-Nighter and I wouldn't have to spend nearly as much time working."

"Isn't that a good thing too? I thought you hated it over there," he said, still confused.

His reactions were causing me to wonder why I was making such a big deal out of it.

"I do! It's just…" I stopped and sighed, enough that it blew some of the hair out of my eyes. I didn't know how to articulate what I was thinking and feeling.

"Just what?" Eric prodded.

"I don't know. This is the first time I've had to, like, consider someone in my plans. You know? I accepted the job at Looney Tunes without needing to consult with Gran, and I'd been working before I met Alcide. But with you, it's something I feel like I should talk about with you, because we're an 'us' now. But then I feel stupid and like a fifties housewife, because you're a guy and I've only been with you for like two days."

"Sookie, I don't see this as like a fifties housewife move on your part that's gonna have Betty Friedan's ghost come haunt you. I think you're being very mature and adult and you were right to include me because we're in this together," he assured me. "You're just getting in your head too much, that's all."

Maybe he was right. Was I blowing this out of proportion? It just felt scary to me that I was in a position in my life now where I had to consider others while making decisions in my life about my job. That seemed like such a grown-up thing to have to do, and here I was doing it.

"Do you like this job? What's he offering you, anyway?"

I told Eric about the beat I'd want, the shows I'd be able to see, and the money and commitments I'd be making.

"So what's stopping you from taking it?" he asked once I was done.

_You, possibly. My insecurities. My 21__st__ century feminist guilt. _"Nothing. I want to take it. I guess I was just freaking out about telling you."

He bit his lip and smoothed my hair back, tucking it behind one ear. "I wish you didn't feel that way. It's your life—I'm just in it for the ride."

"What a depressing thing to say," I told him.

He shrugged. "It's true. I'm not here to make you do anything. I'm here to be with you. It's the same for you, in my life."

"Well, when you say it like that…" I said, and then regretted it. It sounded like I was writing him off. It sounded disgustingly matronly.

I didn't know why I was acting this way and I hated it.

"Did you do well on your paper, anyway?" Eric asked, changing the subject.

"Yes," I said, gratefully. "He said it was good and I was headed in the right direction for my final draft."

"What's it on?" he asked, and I explained my thesis to him.

"That sounds great. I wish I had the chance to write papers like that in college."

Encouraged, I listed off some of the other papers I had written, and topics we'd discussed in class, and Eric was enthralled by it. I remembered that at Looney Tunes he'd always ask what I had done at school that day. Even now he seemed really supportive of my classes, even though I kind of saw them as a big fat reminder of our age difference. I was in school and he owned a bar. Like, if we had to go on a reality show and needed to say what our occupations were, I would be a full-time student and he would be a small-business owner. It's like way back when we first met and I was the part-timer to his assistant management.

"How was your day, anyways?" I said, once we were finished. "Now it's your turn."

"I slept through most of it, really. There's so much paperwork, always, so I did that after lunch. And then I came here, and you're here now," he said simply.

"Any idea for what you want to do later?"

"Well, I have to man the bar until seven, when the part-time bartender comes in. I was thinking that maybe we could just hang out here until then, and we could find somewhere to eat after that? Is that okay?"

"Sure," I said.

I looked at my phone and saw it was 5:30 now—the time I usually had my weekly calls with Gran. She liked to call me when she was making Sunday dinner for Jason, because she saw it as an excuse to hand the phone to him so we'd talk. Jason and I didn't text normally or Facebook chat a lot, just because it was something we'd never done.

"Actually, I have to call my Gran right now. We have this thing where we talk every Sunday night," I explained.

"You can go in my office, if you want somewhere quiet to talk," he offered.

"I'm going to tell her about us," I said.

He waited a beat. "Really?"

"Yeah!" I said. "Why do you sound so surprised?"

"It's just interesting that you freak out about taking a job but have no qualms about telling your grandmother you're dating someone who owns his own bar," he said.

I barked out a laugh. He was so right. "Guess I have my priorities screwed up, huh?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. I'll gladly talk you down from your worries if it means you're not going to try to hide our relationship."

"I wouldn't do that!" I said. "I want people to know I'm with you. And besides, Gran always had a soft spot for you. I think she kind of wanted us to get together."

"Really?" he asked.

I nodded. "Yeah."

"Tell her 'hi' for me, then," he said.

"I will," I promised. "Where's your office, again?"

He showed me where, and then told me he'd be by the bar. I thanked him, put my backpack on the couch, and waited until he closed the door to call Gran.

"Hi, baby," she said, picking up on the third ring. "How are you?"

"Good, Gran," I said. "How about you? Fixing supper now?"

"Chicken and biscuits. Lord, the things I do for Jason," she said, and I laughed.

"Look, Gran, I have to tell you something."

"What is it, honey?"

"Do you remember Eric, from the record store? Eric Northman?" I asked.

I hadn't visited Looney Tunes once while on break, and hadn't really talked about it. She never asked.

"Of course," she said patiently, waiting for me to get on with it.

"I, uh, caught up with him on Friday," I said, and then braced myself.

"You did? Oh, Sookie, that's wonderful! But, what does that mean, catching up with him? Is that what all the kids are calling it these days?"

"Gran!" I squeaked, blushing. It was a good thing Eric wasn't here and this wasn't on speaker phone, or else I'd have been even more mortified.

"It's not? Sorry," she apologized. "Where did you see him, then?"

"At his bar. He owns this bar now. It's pretty cool, actually. He has bands come and play at it sometimes."

"Eric owns a bar now?"

I'd never told her of Eric's dream of having one someday. "Yeah. It's where I am now, actually."

"What happened when you saw him?"

_I made out with him like five minutes later. And then I went to his place and made out with him some more and then slept over. _

"I didn't know it was his bar, so we just caught up," I said in the biggest generalization of my life.

"That's not a euphemism, I'm guessing?" she asked.

"No," I laughed. _Don't worry Gran, we haven't done THAT yet._

"So you saw him on Friday and you're with him now, on Sunday," she said. It wasn't accusatory, but her tone was mighty curious.

"Yeah. He, uh, took me on a date Saturday night. We're having dinner tonight too," I said.

Gran was cool, but not cool enough I'd tell her I slept over at Eric's on Friday.

"Oh, Sookie, that's wonderful. Are you two boyfriend and girlfriend now?"

"Yeah," I said. After all, Eric had introduced us to his friend last night as his girlfriend. I could tell my Gran he was my boyfriend.

"I'm so happy for you. Took you long enough, but still."

"Gran!" I shrieked, for the second time that conversation.

"What? It's true. I always said you two would look good together. He was good to you at the record store so I'm sure he'll be good to you in your relationship. You should bring him home one time. Pity I have this trip during your spring break, otherwise you could have brought him back then."

"Maybe some other time," I said. "And that's not all Gran. My professor gave me this job today, and I'm going to take it."

We talked about that for a while, and then we discussed what Gran had done all week and who she'd seen at church and what they'd discussed at her Descendants meeting. But we ended the conversation with the same topic we'd used to start it—with Eric—and then I hung up and went to go meet the guy I spent the last five minutes talking about.

"How'd it go?" Eric asked when I walked behind the bar to stand next to him.

I felt a little cooler standing behind the bar. It was like I owned the bar … except I just knew the guy who owned the bar.

"Great. She said, and I quote, 'He was good to you at the record store so I'm sure he'll be good to you in your relationship.' But she always liked you," I told him.

"Grandmas and students are my best demographics," he teased, and I playfully thwopped him on the chest with my hand.

"Is it always this slow here?" I asked, looking around. The All-Nighter was slow on Sundays, sure, but not this bad—although that was probably because it was closer to campus and had an actual food menu.

"Well, it's like 5:30 on a Sunday night," he reminded me. The pen and paper from earlier was gone, and he had just been idly arranging bottles before I came over. "It'll pick up a little, soon—probably after we leave."

I'd forgotten we were here until seven.

"If you wanted to use my laptop in the office or do work there, I understand," he said. We were both leaning against the counter, elbows on the countertop, and he nudged my shoulder with his when he said that.

"Nah, it's fine. I can hang out here with you—maybe even practice my bartending."

"Hey, yeah!" he said excitedly. "You know, when you take the writing job and quit the All-Nighter, you'd be more than welcome to take a few shifts here and there at this old joint, if you miss the waitressing experience."

"If I did that, I'd want to try being a bartender. Wait. Can I do that if I'm under 21?"

He shrugged. "I'm pretty sure you just need to be over eighteen or it depends on the establishment. And I'm saying as the owner of the establishment … that'd be pretty sweet."

A couple seconds went by, and Eric didn't say a word. He put his forehead down on the table for at least fifteen seconds and then his head popped back up. And then he offered, "Let's play a game," sounding a little perkier at the notion of actually doing something.

"What kind of game?" I asked.

"A thinking game," was all he said.

I was confused. "You mean, like, a thinking man's game?"

He chuckled. "No. Well, kind of. I don't know. Let's only talk in song lyrics, or song titles."

I laughed, and he did too, a little self-consciously, before adding, "Seriously, though."

"But you're going to be so much better at it than I am, though," I admitted, blurting out the first thing that popped into my head.

"You don't know that!" he protested.

I noticed he didn't rebuke it. Oh well. I was telling the truth and so was he.

He elbowed me in the arm. "C'mon, what do you have to lose?"

"My dignity," I snorted.

Eric rolled his eyes. "Who cares? It's just me. It's just a game. Otherwise, what else are we going to do?"

"Eh, fine. You have a point," I conceded.

He grinned at me in victory. "Yes! Okay. Now we need to settle some rules."

"Rules? This is such a big production for a silly little game!"

"Every game needs rules."

Eric was so serious it made me laugh. "Stop being right all the time," I whined, playfully.

Adopting the same tone of voice, he replied, "Stop doubting me all the time."

"Oh my God, do you _hear_ yourself?"

"Do you hear what I hear?" he sang in a goofy voice.

"Really? The … Christmas song?" I asked, unsure of what the exact title was.

"No song is off limits," he said, shrugging.

"Is that one of your rules?"

He grinned. "It's one of the game's rules."

"You know, you're acting mighty silly for someone who was like, half-asleep a couple minutes ago," I told him.

"I'd never sleep on the job!"

"That's why I said 'half-asleep,'" I teased him.

"Well, it wasn't even that," he huffed.

He smiled at me, and he looked so fun and happy I couldn't help but smile back.

"It doesn't have to be like, an actual conversation. It can be silly and not make sense, but it'd be cool if we could make it work between ourselves, or maybe even with a customer! How awesome would that be?"

"What, do we get more points if we make it work?" I asked.

He gave me a look like he thought I was out of my mind. "That's crazy. Why would we get points? And how would we designate how many points goes to each artist? Sookie, your contribution doesn't make sense."

"Geeze, you're making this seem like a business, not a game," I laughed.

He made a face and put his arm around me. "Huh, that's funny, 'cause I ain't here for business, baby, I'm only here for fun," was what he whispered in my ear.

I got the Bruce Springsteen reference—of course I would, and he knew I would too.

"Oh, okay, I see. I get it."

He teased, "Do you? Because I'm pretty sure you weren't quoting anything just then."

"Well, mister, I'm pretty sure you weren't quoting anything just then either," I sassed, and he put me in a light headlock and ruffled my hair.

"You're giving me a noogie right now? Unbelievable," I said, trying to swat his hands away and ending up with just smacking his forearms because they were all I could get.

"You're unbelievable...nah nah nah nah, nah dah dah dunda da da dah," he tried, letting go to air-guitar parts he was humming to.

"Ugh. Okay. Fine," I conceded, trying to pat down my hair into something remotely normal-looking.

"No, I was wrong. It should be—you're so vain," he sang, watching me.

"And I'm like, fuck you, ooh ooh ooh!" I sang right back at him.

Eric made a 'T' with his hands, signaling a time-out. "See! You're getting it! Nice one!" And then he made the same motion and it was game time again.

"Don't call it a comeback! I've been here for years, I'm rocking my peers puttin' suckers in fear!" I said, making what I hoped resembled gang signs with my hands.

The surprised look Eric had given me at the beginning of my reference changed dramatically when he burst out laughing. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on. You're making Star Trek hands," he wheezed.

I looked down. So I was. Dear Lord.

Eric started laughing even more when he saw my face fall. "You thought Star Trek hands was a gang thing, didn't you! That's so cute."

I put one hand on top of the other and made an awkward turtle as I said, "That's so awkward," causing Eric to laugh even more.

"That's so Raven," he sang, and now I was the one laughing.

"What? It's a song too, you know!" he protested.

"I know it is," I managed to say in between giggles. "I just can't believe you know."

He shrugged and looked appropriately embarrassed. "I really wish I had a little sister right now, just so I could use her as an excuse."

I laughed at that. "Why didn't we ever play this game at the record store?" I asked.

"God, that would have made those long shifts so much easier," he said, reaching to fluff his hair. It was shorter than it'd ever been at Looney Tunes, but it still looked like it'd be soft to run fingers through, especially because it wasn't gelled back like last night. "I have no idea why I didn't come up with it then. Probably because that would have made more sense."

"Okay. How about we take five minutes and brainstorm?" I suggested after a moment. "Then we can give it another go."

"Sure." Eric left my side to go hand me a pen and a reporter's notebook and waved me over to the other side of the bar. "Ready, set, go!" he said as soon as I was over there.

This was hard. I wracked my brain for even one song that I had ever heard that would be useful. I was trying to think of songs with easy, everyday lyrics, but it was hard. It was like I'd never listened to music before ever in my life, or like I'd never thought about the meaning of their lyrics before. My brain was cracking under the insane pressure.

I decided to start at the beginning with the Beatles: "Good day sunshine," "I heard the news today, oh boy," and "I get by with a little help from my friends."

Then, and I couldn't believe I didn't think of it first, I added "Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away. Now it looks as though they're here to stay. Oh, I believe in yesterday." I could work that into conversation, right?

And then, just because I felt like it, I wrote down, and then immediately underlined, "Help!"

Because this wasn't fun, it was torture. It was like school all over again, only not the fun things that I was good at. It was like recess: social torture parading as fun.

I tried to sneak a peek over at Eric to see if he was having as much trouble as I was, only to find him sneaking a peek at me.

"Having trouble, old man?" I teased.

"No, it's just—woah, woah, woah. _Old man_? All right, _baby girl_, let's just see how all those extra years of music listening will help me out."

"If you can remember them … because of your old age."

"Oh, don't worry, I will."

We went back to brainstorming. Maybe I could try rap songs? That was like spoken word and maybe it'd be easier to think of those lyrics.

All I knew was, if I could get "chilling out, relaxing, acting all cool and I was shooting some bball outside of school" into the mix, I'd be so fucking proud of myself. Or if I could get any part of "The Fresh Prince of Bel Air."

I could use "Move, bitch, get out the way," on Eric, since I'd probably be standing next to him when we reconvened. That would be funny. I wrote that down and put a little asterisk next to it.

What were other rap classics? "Ice Ice Baby." Maybe I could say, "All right stop. Collaborate and listen!" when I wanted Eric's attention. Yes, that was good. And there was also "Will it ever stop? Yo, I don't know. Turn off the lights and I'll glow."

I was pretty sure I knew at least the first part of Ice Cube's "It Was A Good Day," and I could use that if someone asked me how my day was. Because I was all about the thug life, baby.

For that, and also Biggie's "Party and Bullshit" and "Juicy" and the girl parts of "Hypnotize," I just wrote the name of the song down, rather than the lyrics, on the opposite side of the paper. I decided that could be the place where I noted the songs I knew all the lyrics to off the top of my head. Plus, with those it'd be a little easy to make up conversation with that—a gangsta conversation, maybe, but a conversation nonetheless.

Funny how Jason's homie period was still rubbing off of me. He and his little buddies had been obsessed with listening to rap in their childhood because my parents didn't want him listening to it. And of course, that's why Jason wanted to listen to the songs, and why I did too.

A second later, I wrote down "Baby Got Back." I'd never met anyone who didn't sing along to the song whenever it came on during karaoke or a party—everyone knew the words to that, including me.

"Another minute or two?" Eric asked from all the way down at his end of the bar.

"You're on," I responded. I was feeling pretty good about what I'd come up with so far.

"Pssh," he retorted.

I'd "pssh" him, all right. Maybe I could use Eminem's "Love the Way You Lie," if Eric made fun of me. I wrote that under the "whole song" category, unfortunately; Tara had been obsessed with that song when it came out and then again when the video came out with her girl crush, Megan Fox.

Now that I'd had classic rap down … what other classic, easily identifiable lyrics could I do? I was pretty sure I could throw down some Britney or Justin or Backstreet Boys or, maybe just as a last-ditch Hail Mary kind of effort, even Aaron Carter. I didn't have Jason or Tara to blame on those…just me.

I had just finished scribbling down the names of their biggest songs when Eric said, "Pencils down!" and I did just that.

My heart was racing like I'd have to actually perform these songs, not just recite these lyrics.

…

**EPOV**

"You can't touch this!" I said, starting it off. I had worked really hard at my list and I hoped Sookie had done the same.

"Whatchu know about that? Whatchu know about that? Whatchu know about that? Hey I know all about that!" she smugly replied, doing her same Star trek hands again as she rapped whatever lyrics those were in a low voice that I guessed was her homie voice.

I made a time-out sign again and when she nodded for me to continue, I said, "Can there be a clause where you can ask what the song was?"

"Sure. That was T.I.'s "What You Know," she said.

"I wasn't asking about _that_ song," I teased, winking so she'd know that I actually was.

When she stuck her tongue out at me, I did it right back to her.

"I almost want to see if you can rap the rest of the song."

She smirked and made the time-in sign. "Loaded fo fo on the low where the cheese at! Fresh off the jet to the Jects where the G's at! Whatchu know about that? Whatchu know about that? Whatchu know about that? Hey I know all about that!" she rapped in her homie voice using her homie hand signals.

I shook my head. "Girl, you really got me going, you got me so I don't know what I'm doing. Yeah, you really got me now, you got me so I can't sleep at night."

"Come on rude boy, boy, can you get it up? Come here rude boy, boy, is you big enough?"

I narrowed my eyes. "She's a ver-y kinky girl," I sang, causing her to narrow her eyes at me. "The kind you don't take home to MOTHA!"

"Um, hi," a customer said, and we both jumped at the sound of the outside voice. He was a young guy, in his twenties maybe but definitely over twenty-one, and he looked a little weirded out by what he heard of our conversation.

Sookie turned to look at me, her eyes gleaming. I could tell what she was thinking, because it probably mirrored my own thoughts: finally! A customer we could try this on!

"Hey there, Delilah," Sookie said, trying to hold in the giggles.

Great, now I was the one trying not to laugh. Could she BE any more obvious? Good thing she was so cute or else the guy probably would have walked out.

"Hey. Um, can I have a Corona, please?"

Sookie looked at me. Shit! How was I supposed to ask if he wanted a lime in that?

I turned to him and nodded. "Well do you," I started, mentally adding, "do you, do you wanna?" since I was taking that from the Franz Ferdinand single, and then I finished by quietly asking, "Put the lime in the coconut?" But I mumbled during the "coconut" part so it kind of sounded like "Corona."

Sookie snorted. She got what I was trying to do.

Franz Ferdinand and Harry Nilsson. God, I loved this game already.

"Sure," he said, obviously not catching on to my genius like Sookie had.

I went and got the Corona for him and set it on the countertop in front of him.

"$6.50," I told him, and he gave me—probably Sookie—nine dollars and walked over to a booth where two other guys were.

"Have a nice day!" Sookie chirped.

I narrowed my eyes at her and she mouthed, "Bon Jovi" at me before winking.

"Thanks, that was fun," she said afterwards, and I laughed. She was pretty good at this.

"And I want to thank you for giving me the best day of my life. Ohh, just to be with you is having the best day of my life," I sang, stretching out the syllables like Dido did.

"Don't sweat the technique."

I'd noticed she was picking a lot of rap songs, and a lot of songs that had the same name as the lyrics. That was smart of her. I'd just listed popular songs everyone and their uncle would know, figuring if I needed to I could whip out some more obscure ones. But how the hell was I supposed to reply to "don't sweat the technique?"

"Tell me something good," I said.

"This is a story about a girl named Lucky," she said, but I had no clue what song that was from. I trusted it was an actual lyric, since it was so weird it'd have to be, but the artist was unknown.

I made the "T" and asked, "Who's that by?"

"Britney Spears. From a song called 'Lucky,'" she said, looking down at the floor.

"No wonder I'd never heard that before," I grumbled, making the "T" again.

"This is the story of a girl, who cried a river and drowned the whole world! And while she looked so sad in photographs, I absolutely love her when she smiles..." I sang, remembering the one-hit wonder that was so popular in high school.

Sookie smiled, getting the reference.

"Here's the story of a lovely lady who was bringing up three very lovely girls. All of them had hair of gold, like their mother, the youngest one in curls."

I know that our previous lyric choices had been from different songs, but I couldn't resist chiming in with the second verse. Come on! It was _The Brady_ _Bunch _theme song!

"Here's the story of a man named Brady who was living with three boys of his own. They were four men living all together yet they were all alone."

She made the "T" song and I smiled and nodded for her to speak. "Can I just say, I have yet to use anything I'd written down?"

I barked out a laugh. "Yeah, same for me. Here, you can start with something from that."

"Okay." Time-in.

"Called up the homies and I'm askin y'all: which park, are y'all playin' basketball? Get me on the court and I'm trouble—last week fuck around and got a triple double! Freaking niggaz every way like M.J. I can't believe, today was a good day," she said. She used the same voice, but held off on doing the Star Trek hands so she could pretend like she was "ballin."

Well, I guess it was easy to wonder what genre of songs Sookie was mentally scrolling through while thinking up lyrics. I could top that.

"In West Philadelphia, born and raised on the playground where I spent most of my days chilling out, maxing, relaxing all cool and I was shooting some bball outside the school when a couple of guys, they were up to no good, started making trouble in my neighborhood!"

"I was a terror since the public school era—bathroom passes, cuttin classes, squeezing asses. Smoking blunts was a daily routine since thirteen, a chubby nigga on the scene."

Time-out. I was laughing. "Honestly, Sookie, how many times have you said nigga?"

She giggled, much more adorably than appropriate given the reason why she was giggling. "It's a hard-knock life."

I shook my head. "That shit cray."

"If you havin' girl problems I feel bad for you, son. I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one!"

I couldn't stop cracking up. Sookie was like, the biggest white girl I knew, and here she was shooting off all these classic rap lyrics. The juxtaposition was hilarious.

I was going to reply, but then a big crowd of people came in and sat at the bar. Game over.

"I had fun. We should do this again," I said to her before I started taking drink orders.

She smiled. "Maybe next time I'll actually use more than one thing off of my list!"

After that, it picked up a little bit, and Sookie helped out with getting the bottled drinks and filling beer orders after I showed her how and where to do that during a lull in the orders. I was on mixed drink and cocktail duty, but I was always in charge of telling people what they owed. Sookie didn't know the prices—but she would, someday, and probably soon.

Most of the people sat at the bar, so we couldn't start up our little Sookie-and-Eric game again, so we just goofed around joking about Sookie's gangster-ness and where she got all those lyrics from in the rare moments of down time. Plus, the bartender, Maxwell Lee, came almost a half-hour before schedule, so we could duck out of there sooner.

"Hungry?" I asked, walking her down the hall to my office so I could get my things. It was just cold enough that I needed to wear the blazer I had brought, and I had brought my laptop to work so I needed to bring that home tonight.

"Starving!"

"Anything in particular you want? Anything you can't really get on campus or in the dining hall?" I asked. "I remember I missed homemade turkey sandwiches, and whenever I came home from college or went to someone else's house I always asked for those."

"Actually, now that you mention it, I can't remember the last time I had good, greasy Chinese take-out. There aren't any places near the apartment. Do you know of anything?"

"Yeah, there's this one place we could get takeout from. I used to order from there when I worked at Looney Tunes headquarters," I said.

"Oh, is that nearby?" she asked brightly.

"Um, probably. Maybe a fifteen minute drive from here," I said, thinking of the couple of times I'd gone there to make the arrangements for the Looney Tunes posters I had hanging in the bar (with little plaques stating they were on loan from the archives department of the company, since Sophie-Anne was always thinking about herself).

"So does Chinese sound good, at my place? We could just chill out there."

"Yeah, let's do that. I'm sure there's something on TV, or maybe we can watch a movie."

"Sounds like the lazy Sunday I need," I told her, and she smiled.

I didn't have a takeout menu at home, but I did remember the name of the place and I looked up the menu online. Like me, Sookie ate anything Chinese as long as it came with a meat thing and a noodle or rice thing, so we ordered lo mein and General Tsao's chicken and turned on Jeopardy as we waited for it to come up. I usually didn't want the show, but apparently Sookie used to like to play with her Gran, so we kept that on. Sookie was pretty good at it, but I had my times of answering where'd she squeal "Look at you!" or "Wow, I didn't even know that!"

When the food came, we moved to the kitchen, where I found out Sookie couldn't use chopsticks.

"Really? Didn't you ever want to learn, in all your years?" I asked, as I popped a piece of chicken in my mouth. I'd been using chopsticks ever since I could remember.

"Yes, of course. But apparently I hold my pencil wrong, and you're supposed to hold chopsticks like you hold your pencil so I can never get it right," she said, stabbing her chicken with a fork.

"What do you mean, you hold your pencil wrong? Did you like, fail kindergarten or something?"

"No, I didn't fail kindergarten," she retorted. "I don't know, it's what my Gran said. See, look at your right hand. I rest my pencil on my ring finger and hold it with my thumb."

She said that while reaching across the table to reposition the chopsticks in my hand to how she would hold it.

"See? Try using those," she said, picking up her fork again.

I did, but I sucked at it. "Okay. I get it."

"Yeah. So, that's that. Although sometimes when I go out for Chinese I can ask for kiddie chopsticks, where they put a rubber band around the top so it's easier to use. Those I can eat with just fine."

"Good to know."

We watched Jeopardy until it was over, and then cleaned up after ourselves—I washed, and she dried. When we were finished, she found a Colbert Report marathon on and we just watched that and talked about politics. I'd figured she was a democrat since most college kids are, and she was, so we got along on that front. Other times we'd just talk about whatever Colbert was talking about or laugh. When I found out she hadn't seen the segment that Jack White did with the Black Belles to make Colbert into a musician, I got my laptop open and showed her those clips during the commercial breaks.

This all happened until I realized it was getting darker out and Sookie had sunk down deeper into the couch and was using more blanket than she had when we first snuggled in together.

"Hey, you getting tired?" I asked, kissing her on the top of her head. Sitting next to her on the couch made me realize it worked out just so that I could rest my chin on her head, like a headrest.

She looked up, surprised, and then took her phone out. "Yeah, I guess I am. Although I'm such a grandma, it's only ten-thirty."

"That's okay. Want me to drive you home, or can you stay over here? What time is your class tomorrow?"

She thought about it, closing her eyes as she tried to remember. "Um, I have one at eleven."

"Why don't you just stay over and we can have breakfast tomorrow and I'll drop you off at your house?" I asked.

I was being selfish and lazy. I kind of didn't want to get up and drive her home, and I wanted her to sleep over. She was so soft and smelled so good when we were under the covers together the last time.

"Yeah?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said.

"Okay." And then she snuggled even more into my shoulder.

At the next commercial break I whispered, "Sookie, you still awake?"

"Mmmm" I heard.

"Just checking."

At the start of the next episode, I asked the same thing, but didn't get a response. When I sat up straight, her head lolled a bit to the side in my chest's absence.

Good thing she wasn't that heavy and I'd been pretty good at going to the gym. I didn't know if Sookie falling asleep on the couch at an hour that most college kids probably were eating dinner (like I had been doing back then) was a regular occurrence, but if it was I was glad I was capable of picking her up bridal-style and carrying her to the bedroom.

She woke up a little in my arms, and then stirred. "Whaa?" she asked, adorably, looking around for her surroundings.

"It's just me. I'm taking you to the bedroom," I quietly told her. I was still walking down the hall, but she didn't ask me to put her down. I kind of liked that.

"Do you still have my toothbrush?" she asked.

"Yeah. I saved it," I admitted. "It's in a cup inside the medicine cabinet."

By this point, we were in the bedroom, and I gently lowered her so she was standing. She kissed me on the cheek and went to the bathroom, and while she brushed her teeth I changed into some sweats and an old t-shirt.

When she got out of the bathroom, it was my turn, and when I got out she was sitting on what was forever her side of the bed, playing with her phone.

"Should I set the alarm for eight?"

"Sure," I agreed, walking to my side.

I usually didn't start to get ready for the bar until noon or so, but I liked going to the gym before then so if I drove Sookie back at ten then I could just go right to the gym from there. That'd work out nicely.

"How cold are you? You can sleep in some sweats, if you want," I offered. She was wearing jeans and some sort of flowy tank top thing with a cardigan, which was hardly PJ material.

"A tee and pants would be nice," she said. I got them out of the closet—a pair of flannel bottoms and, though it was the first shirt picked out of my PJ shirt drawer, an old Looney Tunes shirt. She smiled when I held it before throwing the clothes at her.

She didn't move once she was holding the clothes, so I left to make sure I locked the door and shut off the TV. We weren't at the part of our relationship where we could undress each other—which made sense, because I hadn't seen Sookie with her clothes off. My clothes had touched her bare skin more times than I had.

"As cute as you look in my clothes, feel free to leave some stuff here," I told her upon entering the room and seeing her changed.

She looked dumbfounded. "Aren't guys supposed to like, be resistant to that at first?"

I looked back at her, equally dumbfounded. "I don't know. Are they? Was Alcide?"

She shrugged from where she was sitting on top of the bed. "I don't know. Things went so slow between us that it just kind of happened over time."

"Well. I mean, it makes sense for us, especially because this is the second time you're sleeping over. It doesn't, I don't know, freak me out. Is it supposed to?"

"_Cosmo_ would probably say so."

"What does Sookie Stackhouse say?" I purred, sliding into bed.

"She thinks it'd be a lot more comfier, though she likes wearing your shirts," she replied, moving closer so she could rest her chin on my chest.

"And when is Sookie Stackhouse going to realize that Eric Northman isn't like other guys?" I teased. I hoped it didn't look like I had a double chin from where she was looking at me.

She hung her head, her eyelashes fluttering against the soft material of my Henley, and when she replied she was suddenly serious in the flirtatious banter we'd had going. "When she starts learning how to use her brain."

I changed the subject. "Are you warm enough?"

Picking her head up, she smiled at me. "Yeah."

"Good," I replied, stroking her hair.

"Eric?" she asked after a couple minutes.

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad I told my Gran the truth about you, this time."

It took me a second to remember the other time she hadn't told Adele the truth about me and had instead lied about sleeping over at Amelia's the night of my party. My, how things had changed since then.

"Me too."

She inched up closer to my face, kissing the skin on the way up before she got to my mouth. The dangling ends of her hair tickled my chest.

"Vanilla mint kisses," she breathed, and I kissed her for it. I loved my toothpaste too.

After some time she was on top of me, her hair brushing up against my shoulders. Things were getting sloppier and looser, and both of us were that way too. Or, we had been, until she yawned in my mouth. My eyes popped open at the surprise of it, all the better to see how wide her eyes were hovering over me.

"Ohmigod!" she shot out, pulling away and cradling my face, as if that would make it all better. "I'm so sorry!"

"It's okay," I laughed. "I just can't believe you yawned while kissing me! Can't say that's ever happened before" I laughed again at the memory again, even though it just happened.

"Eric!" she cried as she rolled off of me so she was sitting upright. "It's not like that! I love kissing you. It's just … it's getting late for me and I woke up early today so I could go for a run and then study and then look over my paper and then go to that meeting and do some work and then come to the bar and … it was really exhausting coming up with all those lyrics!"

It was amusing how concerned and embarrassed she looked. "Don't worry about it, Sookie."

"Yeah?" she asked timidly.

"Yeah," I replied, sitting up too so I could kiss her. But as soon as she tried to slip her tongue in my mouth, I faked a yawn and pushed air down her throat.

"Eric!" she squealed, pulling back.

"Now we're even," I said, laughing.

"I really am sorry," she said genuinely. Even in the semi-darkness I could tell she was giving me puppy eyes.

"Sookie, seriously, get out of your head. It's fine," I murmured, running a finger up and down her arm a couple times.

"You mean it?"

"Yeah. Go to sleep so you can kiss me tomorrow without exhaling carbon dioxide in my esophagus."

"You're so weird," she said, caressing the adjective like it was a good thing.

I waited until we were lying back down until I retorted, "Um, excuse me, I'm not the one who yawned mid-kiss."

"Eric!" she groaned.

I laughed at how she was getting so worked up over this. "Sorry, sorry. I had to. Couldn't resist."

"Ugh."

Her head was back on my chest, although it was probably closer to my armpit now. I still could stroke her hair a couple times to reassure her.

"Good night, Sookie."

"Night."

"Sweet, non-yawning dreams."

"I hate you."

...

**A/N: So because it's been a while since I last made an update (sorry, again!) I went back and read through this. Usually I HATE reading my own writing, but I was able to get through this okay, which surprised me. **

**And that got me thinking about what my favorite parts were of this story, and what I would have liked to have changed: mostly, I would have had Eric and Sookie stay platonic until she left for college, and then I would have had her come back to the record store to work as a seasonal worker and see how things changed in her absence and how some things picked up right like she'd left yesterday, and that would be where the robber would come in and Eric and Sookie would kiss and then all the drama would come. **

**And that's where you come in, dear reader. What are your favorite parts of this story? What would you have done differently? Do you like the alternating POVs of the story, or is there one side you would prefer to read exclusively from? Be as honest as you want.**


	20. Second Text

**A/N: Here we are again! Welcome back to my brain. It's good to have you back. **

**A Grammy nomination-size thank you to my beta chiisai-kitty. Grammy nomination-size. **

**...**

**SPOV:**

I really hadn't seen Tara over the weekend, since I'd spent so much time with Eric and we both had a lot of studying to do on our own for midterms, so we agreed to meet up for coffee in the late afternoon and catch up.

But once we sat down, it felt like the Sookie show, since Tara didn't have two potentially life-changing events happen to her in forty-eight hours like I had. I'd been on the receiving end of life's one-two punch, with the reappearance of Eric and the writing opportunity, and Tara was a good enough friend that she wanted to hear all about both. So I told her everything about the blogazine, which she thought sounded great and I needed to do it, and that naturally led to Eric.

"So, just to reiterate what you said—you slept over Friday and Sunday nights and the most you did was make out?" Tara just straight-up asked me, squinting at me like she thought I was lying.

"Well, yeah," I admitted, looking around to see if anyone else at the neighboring tables had heard her, which it thankfully didn't seem. "But when you put it like that, it takes away some of its meaning."

I was a little glad I didn't tell her I'd yawned while kissing Eric. I was still smarting from that, even though Eric had very kindly laughed it off.

Still. I sincerely hoped he'd be the first one to fart in our relationship. I really did.

"Why aren't you doing anything with him? Are you scared to?" Tara asked.

"I'm not scared of sleeping with him or anything," I said. "I want to—I've thought about it a lot. To be honest, I thought more about being with Eric after I left him—like, all these little 'what if' moments, like what if Eric had been the first person I slept with, and what if Eric had been my first serious boyfriend. I think when I was around him, I would have been scared to do anything with him, because I was so inexperienced and unsure and had low self-esteem. It'd have been like going from zero to sixty in a second, and I would have been doing that with, like, The Eric."

Tara nodded her head sympathetically, and I took that as a sign that she didn't think I was being stupid and that I should continue.

"And I don't have those issues now and I still can't believe I'm with him, but that's more in a flabbergasted way. But, I'm a little scared to take the next step in our relationship. Sometimes it feels like we're the people we used to be at the record store, and sometimes it feels like we've changed and we're in a relationship. I guess I'm waiting for a sign that makes me feel like I've really moved on or something."

I waited before leaning towards her and conspiratorially whispering, "And he hasn't pushed for anything or even guided my hand down there or his hand up there, you know? The only pushing he's done is to have me leave things over at his place."

Tara's eyebrows shot into her hairline. "You haven't fucked him but he wants you to leave clothes in his drawers?"

It was reassuring to know I wasn't the only one who thought that was a little bit off. "Yeah."

She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms across her chest. "It's like he's going backwards, you know?"

"He hasn't had a long-term relationship, really," I said.

I didn't want to get into his past, since that wasn't fair to talk about it with Tara without his approval or presence. Granted, his past wasn't anything at all like mine, but i was still his and I thought that would be all I needed to say about his life.

"But he's so hot!" she blurted out.

"I know. But he hasn't stuck around with anyone long enough, I guess. And that means he doesn't know the exact Cosmo-approved timeline of when to do things and doesn't give a fuck about it," I said, a little testily.

It was weird, because she was having the same reaction I had last night, but somehow it seemed meaner when she voiced these things.

Plus, she just said my boyfriend was hot.

"I guess that makes sense. You guys don't exactly have a Cosmo-approved relationship, either," Tara casually remarked before taking a sip of her vanilla latte.

I almost said something like, "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" but I stopped myself just in time. Once again, Tara was saying things I'd already said (mostly to myself, but whatever) but somehow it was different coming from her mouth.

We DIDN'T have a Cosmo-approved relationship. So what? We had our own relationship. Cosmo could go fuck itself using one of the 39 hot new sex tips offered in some variation or another on every month's cover.

But…that was cruel. And easier thought than done. Because the thoughts I had afterwards were nowhere near as confident.

Like this one: Eric used to be my boss, and now he's my boyfriend. Switching magazines, that would probably be a Glamour "don't."

Or what about this one? He owns a bar and legally I'm not allowed to drink (even though he could care less and has served me alcohol on more than one occasion). Another Glamour "don't."

When we were at the restaurant Saturday night, I was scared that people would see us and think we're brother and sister because of our hair and eyes. And he, of course, would be the older brother.

Sometimes I thought he was way too hot for me. Or too sexy for me. Or too good for me.

Sometimes I thought that he was so out of my league.

Looks and personality aside, Eric had done so much with his life, things I couldn't even try to relate to or understand. He was in a band signed to a major label when he was my age, or just a year or two older. And now, when he's the same age as my no-good brother who has a crappy job working at a road repair crew and spends all his money on beer, Eric owns his own business and is very successful at it.

What the fuck did I have to show for myself? That I used to work at a record store—one that he helped design and was the assistant manager of? Or that I beat up my rapist? Or that I had a 3.7 at a prestigious university where I had a journalism job offer I hadn't technically accepted yet?

Forget the yin-and-yang of this weekend. Now it was more like ying-and-yo.

"Sookie?" Tara asked.

I had been zoning out, stuck in my thoughts. "What?"

"Lost you there for a bit. You were staring at nothing."

"Oh. Sorry. What were you saying?"

"So, I've been thinking … we should have a party."

"A party?" I dumbly repeated.

Her eyes lit up. "Yeah! A party. We haven't had one yet, not the kind I'm thinking of, and we've been living at that apartment for how long?"

She was right—we'd had a couple friends over for drinks occasionally, but usually we just went out to go to parties. It could be fun to host a party at our place.

Eric was good at hosting parties. We were good at hosting parties together.

Tentatively, I replied, "What kind of party did you have in mind?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. A theme party, maybe."

"A theme party? Like, a 1920s theme party where we all dress up like F. Scott Fitzgerald characters?"

"Sookie, you're such an English major," she playfully chided. "And I don't know. I want it to be like an ugly sweater party, but sexy."

What the hell did she mean,_ an ugly sweater party, but sexy_. That made no sense.

"Why not just have a … sexy sweater party?" I tried. Was that even a thing?

She just shook her head, not even bothering to verbally respond to that. "You remember Mark, right? That guy I showed you on Facebook that I saw at Starbucks that one time? The hot guy with the lip ring?"

I nodded. I never got why Tara only went after the guys she thought was hot. It was weird for me that she could look at someone and think, "Oh, he's hot, I want to sleep with him," and then immediately go work on doing just that. This instantaneous "I want to tap that" phenomenon scared me, because I didn't understand it.

What did that mean, anyway? People instantly wanted to sleep with people they thought were hot—that I got. But I didn't understand why they assumed someone who was hot would be good in bed. They didn't have to go hand-in-hand, necessarily. Someone could be extremely attractive but a terrible kisser. Just because a girl was pretty didn't mean she was good in bed, or ready to show that she was good in bed.

Bill was hot. He was not a bad-looking guy. I could admit it—and if I could admit it, then it was true. And if I could admit that after what he did to me, then he was really hot. But he was a terrible person. He was bad. Hot, but bad, and not a good bad either. I hadn't really known that much about Bill before he raped me, but I knew he was good-looking, because that was easier to see and figure out than that he was not a nice guy.

What if the hot people were also bad people? What if they had terrible personalities or were mean and bossy or talked down to you. You were stuck with them, then, because you didn't bother getting to know them before you tried taking their clothes off. But I guess if that person was hot enough it didn't matter.

Maybe it was a status or self-worth thing, and a girl could look at a hot guy and think, _if he sleeps with me then that makes me more attractiv_e. Or maybe it was for personal enjoyment—_who cares if that girl is terrible in the sack, because at least I'll get to see her tits_. Maybe it was because they wanted to see the body, because that was all the boy was, the abs and pecs and that man "V" thingy.

No one else seemed to think like that. We were accustomed to see a hot boy and want to be with him and want to see him with his shirt off. It was expected that a guy would try and get with the hot girl that he just met a second ago.

I wasn't judging. I couldn't judge because I didn't understand it. I guessed Tara did, or didn't care that she was just making all these assumptions based off of good looks. Whatever, that was her thing, not mine. She could do that all she wanted—and had been, since I'd known her.

As a sex, I felt like we didn't want guys to judge us by our looks so we shouldn't do that for them. It was like how it always annoyed me when I went to a party with Tara and she would complain about how guys would always look at her in her skintight skirts and dresses she put four other ones on before finally selecting that one, and the makeup she spent an hour putting on and the hair that took equally long to craft. It was like,_ could you blame them? And don't try and pretend like you are dressing for yourself right now._

"Yeah, I remember him," I lied. I had no idea who she was talking about, but if he was someone Tara was angling for, then of course he'd be good-looking and of course she'd want to sleep with him. That was just who she was.

"I want to invite him. And that's why it needs to be a sexy party, but not one where random people start coupling up and fucking on your bed or in your bathroom."

At least we were on the same page about not having randos come and fool around in our living space.

"What about a toga party?" I thought, feeling pretty good about myself for coming up with that.

"No, this will be too intimate for a toga party. And also, last time I checked, we're not a frat." She tapped her fingers thoughtfully on her lower lip, and then almost immediately exclaimed, "I've got it!"

"What?"

"We can have an ABC party!"

"A what party?"

How did she think all my ideas were bad and then she wanted to have a party where we dressed up as the alphabet? I didn't think that was very sexy, and I was—as she pointed out—an English major.

"An ABC party. It stands for 'anything but clothes,'" she informed me.

"WHAT?" I shrieked.

People at neighboring tables glanced over at us.

Tara shot me a look. _Be cool._ Slowly, she explained, "You can wear whatever you want, it just can't be clothes. The last ABC party I went to I wore a dress made out of duct tape. I've seen people come in togas or trash bags or newspapers or cardboard boxes."

So she didn't want people hooking up in our house but she wanted people to come wearing like, duct tape around their butts and sit on our couch? That didn't make any sense whatsoever.

"You should invite Eric," she said. "It'll be fun. Maybe if you get a few drinks in the both of you, it'll be the push you guys need."

Maybe she was right. Goodness knows I loosened up around Eric when I drank a lot. And the last time I was at a party with Eric, we'd helped make it. We could do it again, only it'd be at my place this time.

But I wasn't sure how Eric would feel going to a college party. True, it would be at my house, with my friends. It'd be a good introductory way.

I wouldn't feel weird about him being there. I just hoped he'd feel the same way.

"When would this party happen, anyway? It is midterm week, you know," I warned.

And by "midterm week," Tara knew I meant "Hell week." She'd roomed with me for over a year now—she knew how I got.

"What about this Saturday?" Tara proposed. "It can be like, a celebration party—we survived midterms so let's get drunk!"

She looked so hopeful and happy. She really wanted to do this, and I was on my way to letting her. I wasn't too crazy about the idea of barely-dressed people coming in my house and sitting on my furniture, but they'd have to have their bits and pieces covered up at least, right? Otherwise I'd use my power as the host and kick them out before their butts could touch the seat cushion.

Or get Eric to do the dirty work.

"Okay," I said.

Tara squealed and clapped her hands, like I was her mother and had just told her she could pick out a candy from the display in the checkout line at the grocery store. "YAY!"

"Wait. Before you start, I have a couple conditions," I cautioned.

She nodded for me to continue.

"One, I really don't even want to think about planning this party because I have so much going on. I don't care who you invite, as long as you take care of it. I'll start helping out Friday morning, after I turn my paper in at eleven, but I don't want to be involved even the tiniest bit before then."

"Okay."

"_Okay_. Two, if anyone shows up and I see stuff I don't want to see, I can kick them out."

"Fine."

Two down, one to go.

"This isn't like, a deal-breaker. But if Eric does end up coming, I think he'd like helping out with drinks. I don't mean getting us stuff, although he probably would be more than happy to. But he owns a bar—it'd just be silly not to ask him for help," I said.

Boy, was I getting cocky. I'd only been dating Eric for like a second and here I was already making plans for him at a party I hadn't even told him about, much less invited.

She shrugged. "That'd be awesome, if he could help out."

"Okay. That's it, then. Let's do this," I said.

Tara exclaimed, "Oh my God, I'm so excited now! This is EXACTLY what I need to push me through midterms!"

Though I wasn't nearly excited as she was, I was happy, although for a different reason. I couldn't wait to host another party with Eric. Maybe we could serve drinks together and he could try some new concoctions. Maybe this time we can both get a little tipsy. For all the drinking he's done with me, I've never actually seen Eric drunk. That could be fun.

Yes. Maybe this was exactly what I needed to push me through midterms too.

I had work tonight, and as if that wasn't stressful enough, I probably had to get a head start on giving them my two-week's notice or whatever. Todd had said that I might be able to work at the bar while writing for the blogazine, but I didn't really want to do that. I figured if I needed extra money I could take Eric up on his offer to work at his bar, not that we'd talked about that, really.

More importantly, this would be the first time I saw Sam since I deserted him at the bar on Friday.

I hadn't checked Facebook at all this weekend. Not even once. That had to have been a new record. I had spent so much time away from the computer with Eric, and when I had been by my laptop I'd been too busy working or obsessing about my new boyfriend. I hardly believed this was possible, but I'd found something that made me procrastinate even more than Facebook—and then I'd slept over at his place two out of three nights on the weekend.

No wonder I was ten minutes late for work.

Sam came in for his shift about an hour into mine, and unfortunately the All-Nighter wasn't that packed (it was a Monday night of midterms week, after all) so I had a little more free time than I would have liked.

"Hi," I said, a little nervously, as I waited for Sam to fill my drinks order.

"Hey yourself," he said, smiling but not in a way that made me think he meant it.

I wanted to ask him how his weekend was, just for something to say. But I didn't know if he would misinterpret that and think I was being snotty or braggy or something.

Fortunately for me, he ended up asking how my weekend was.

"Um, good. I, uh, spent most of it with my friend—"

"Eric," he finished for me.

"Yeah," I mumbled.

"Yeah." He wiped the bar with a wet hand towel, using a lot more force than necessary.

"What about you?" I cheerfully tried.

"Well, my Saturday morning wasn't that great. I was worried about you, Sookie. You weren't answering any of my texts, which I could maybe understand, but you also weren't answering any of Tara's," he reminded me as he filled two margaritas up.

Oh. So much for being cheerful. "I know, I'm sorry. I slept in late," I said.

"Can I tell you something?" he asked.

You mean something more indelicate or blunt than what you've already said to me? Sure, go ahead.

I nodded weakly at him.

"I checked your Facebook a lot this weekend, to see if your relationship status would change or something," he admitted, looking right at me the whole time he said that.

I felt heat rise to my face and willed away the blush. "We're not, ah, exactly Facebook official yet."

"But you are with him. Eric."

"Yes. I am," I replied, pleased with how sure I sounded.

The worst thing is that all I got out of this conversation was that it made me wonder if Eric still had his Facebook deactivated or not. We'd kind of ignored technology all weekend, which was practically unheard of for me. I wasn't a big texter, and usually just texted Sam or Tara whenever they texted me, but I did like my Facebook.

Sam clunked the glasses on the table, spilling froth on the side. I awkwardly picked up the glasses so he could clean up the liquid, and then, without saying a word, walked over to the couple who'd ordered the drinks.

The next time Sam filled an order for me, it was done in complete silence.

And the next time? He was asking how my midterm schedule looked this week.

It went like that all night—hot and cold, one after the other, nonstop. I didn't get it. Whoever said girls were bitchier than boys had obviously never stood in my sneakers that night.

It got to the point where I started hoping that a customer wouldn't ask for a drink that would require me to go to the bar.

Thankfully, no one else seemed to notice. I wasn't exactly buddy-buddy with any of the waitresses, and I quickly ducked out as soon as my shift ended without saying anything to Sam (who was working until closing) or my boss and the bar's owner, Malcolm.

I was such a scaredy-cat.

The first thing I did when I got home was to check my Facebook. Three new notifications! One was a Facebook message from Sam dated Saturday afternoon just asking how I was. One was for an invitation to "Sookie and Tara's After-Midterms ABCs" party that Tara was inviting me to.

And the last notification was from Eric Northman—a message dated yesterday at three in the morning just saying "Boo!"

Eric Northman had a Facebook again.

Instead of immediately replying to his message, I instead clicked to go on his profile. It looked like he had activated it this afternoon, but he already had a couple people (none that I knew or remembered) who had written on his wall welcoming him back to Facebook.

His profile picture was a new one, of him standing behind the bar at A5. His hands were placed on the table and he was leaning forward, hunched slowly. He looked really, really happy, and I loved that I knew why.

Still, it was a little weird to see his profile, because everyone else had switched over to the new "timeline" format and he hadn't, since he wasn't on Facebook when it had come out. I'd forgotten what it looked like, just like I'd forgotten what his profile looked like.

I looked through on his pictures. There were also some new ones, like the ones with him with Stan at his wedding; Eric must have been in Stan's wedding party. From what I could tell, he had taken Pam as his date, and he was looking incredibly sexy and old-Hollywood in his tux and tan. Pam, of course, looked gorgeous too in a fuchsia shift dress and a beehive hairdo.

Most of the ones I remembered already stalking months ago were the pictures of him playing at Bloodhound—hair over his eyes (had his hair really been that long way back when?), only parts of his face showing because of the angle it was tilted at, leaning back during a solo. I had forgotten how rock star-y he could look in a dim light.

After a moment, I decided to open a new window and go to the Looney Tunes Shreveport's Facebook page. Stan and someone named Felicia were making most of the posts now, and they weren't as funny or random as Eric's had been. But I didn't read through most of them, because I was on a mission to find the photo from Record Store Day that Eric and I were in.

I bypassed the "Record Store Day 2011" album—I remembered going through that when it appeared on my mini-feed last April and there wasn't a single picture of Eric in it, in addition to not having a staff picture either.

There was a staff picture in the "Record Store Day 2010" album. Our first Facebook picture together—and of course it was untagged so we didn't have a Facebook friendship picture. That bugged me even more now.

Oh, God. Were we going to be Facebook official? Would it say "Sookie Stackhouse is in a relationship with Eric Northman?" Was it too soon to do that—or was it too late?

My profile never said if I was in a relationship or not, even when I was dating Alcide. And when I looked at Eric's profile again, I saw that his was the same way.

Now what?

Figuring that was something we should do in person, I went to see what my "friendship" with Eric was like. Before I looked at the screen, I tried to remember the last Facebook interaction we'd had. All I could remember was that he had liked the picture of the Mapquest instructions I'd found with the lyrics to Old Crow Medicine Show's "Wagon Wheel" ("Make it down the coast in seventeen hours. Pick up a bouquet of dogwood flowers. Hope for Raleigh I can see my baby tonight").

But I guess Facebook "friendship" didn't count "likes," which was a shame because that was mostly what we did on Facebook.

It did, however, show that we were part of the "I hate my job" Looney Tunes group (which, when I opened the link in a separate tab, hadn't had any activity since October) and that we went to Eric's party together, but what did that mean, anyway? Facebook didn't know that we literally went to his party together and that we even went grocery-shopping for it.

The last comment had been for my 19th birthday, when Eric had written "Happy Birthday Stackhouse!" on my wall. Then before that it was when I had written, "Happy Birthday, Northman!" on his wall on December 19, his birthday.

Then, all the way back in last September, so about a month or so since I left Looney Tunes, I had posted a picture on his wall of a Fangtasia single someone had brought in when I still worked at the New Orleans Looney Tunes. Eric's band wasn't even listed in the system—which meant Looney Tunes had never sold anything related to Fangtasia, but I still bought it from the guy for a dollar out of pocket. I asked the twentysomething guy where he got it and he'd replied his ex-girlfriend used to play it in college, and I could still feel the twitch of jealousy that had struck me back then.

I had brought the CD home with me, even though it only had two songs on it. Eric was on the album cover with every other band member in a publicity shot I had recognized from their Facebook page. The songs were the same ones I'd found Eric playing on Youtube—the one with the dog collar and guyliner—and I had really bought it just to buy it.

Funny thing was that I hadn't thought of that CD in months. Come to think about it, I don't think I had seen it since I moved to this apartment. Maybe I needed to do some spring-cleaning and find it to surprise Eric.

I must have surprised Eric when I posted a picture of the CD to his wall—this was the first official Facebook interaction we'd had since I left. "Look what I found!" was what I had posted at 5:27 p.m. on September 20.

At 9:03 p.m., he'd replied, "Aaaaah! Burn it!"

"I think you mean to write, 'Aaaaaah! Play it!' So I did—loudly," I had replied.

He had just liked that comment. And that was it, until "Happy Birthday Northman!" on December 19.

Everything about us was compact and fit on a single page. In that moment, I hated Facebook and everything it meant. Man beat computers, because (this wo-)man could remember things that happened offline that were way more meaningful than anything Facebook tried to counter it with.

Now that my stalking was complete, I went back to replying to Eric's "Boo!" message.

"Eek! The ghost of Facebook past!" I decided to reply.

After checking my mini-feed for a couple minutes, I got up and went to the bathroom and exited it out to open Spotify. I had gotten it over the summer, when the online digital music library came over to the States, and I was a premium subscriber so I got my library on my iPod. I was obsessed with it—I barely used iTunes anymore, since Spotify basically was like an iTunes except you could listen and download any song you wanted and be able to play it on any computer you wanted.

I fooled around on Spotify for a minute or so, finally deciding to listen to my favorite new band, Sleeper Agent, before I went back to Facebook.

Eric was on, and had messaged me. "Haha, figured it was time. I made a Facebook page for Area 5. Go like it!"

I typed it in my search box and found it, as had thirty other people in the past couple of days, since Saturday morning (when had he done that?). It was a page with the picture as the outside of the bar, and most of the wall activity was Eric writing what the drink specials of the day were or announcements of who would be playing at the bar and when.

I thought it was pretty clever he had put the specials up on Facebook, and he was actually getting a lot of comments and "likes" from people on the statuses.

Then I noticed there was an album from when they were doing construction on the building and then an album from opening night, and I could clearly identify Eric in some of them even without clicking to enlarge them.

I was clicking through the construction one, flabbergasted at the sight of seeing Pam in jeans and a hoodie and a hard hat, when Eric messaged me again: "Thanks!"

But I ignored it, still, to go through all of the pictures. Eric looked like an actual lumberjack instead of the hipster lumberjack he usually resembled when he wore his plaid flannel shirts and his one pair of non-skinny jeans (from what I remembered as his wardrobe at Looney Tunes, anyways). Eric was even wearing Timberlands and not in a frat-bro way.

But I did respond to Eric's chat when I found a picture of Eric in the album from opening night, one with his arm around Pam and smiling for the camera outside of the bar once they put the sign up.

Eric was wearing a black slim-cut suit, black dress shirt, no tie, and looked really good. His hair was gelled back, as it had been the night I first walked into his bar.

But what instantly drew me in was the small gold hoop earring in his right—no, just kidding, it was really his left—ear. Eric had a pierced ear.

He wasn't pierced when we were at Looney Tunes together. And I didn't remember seeing a hoop, or a stud, or even a hole in his ear last night, or the night before, or the night before that.

"Is one or both of your ears pierced?" I typed.

I drummed my fingers on my laptop as I waited for him to reply. The bad thing was that I could see that "Eric is typing…" but he was just taking so long to do it!

"Oh, did you see it on the pictures from the A5 homepage? Yeah. I got my left ear pierced last August, but I'm not too crazy about it so I don't wear an earring a lot."

"Gotcha," I replied. Ugh. Now what to do? Where could the conversation go on from here?

"What about you? Did you get any piercings I should know about?" he replied.

"Haha. No. I've been thinking about trying a nose ring, but I'm too scared to."

"I think you'd look good with like a Ke$ha hoop. But you could probably rock a stud too. You have a good face for a nose piercing."

"That's literally the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me," I replied.

I wished we were having this conversation in person so he could get my deadpan.

"Shut it."

A second later, a picture of a penguin appeared. But, like, an illustrated penguin—not one made using symbols like (") or something.

"OMG! What was that?" I typed back. I had never seen anything like that. I knew if you made a heart or a smiley face on Facebook chat then it became illustrated, though.

Instead of answering, Eric sent back an illustration of a shark. And then a man. And then a red box with the number 42 written on it.

Then he sent me a link to a page that had all the secret codes you had to put in your chat so Facebook would generate them to be illustrated. And we spent the next two minutes sending graphics back and forth to each other without actually saying anything.

It was awesome.

When we had literally gone through every graphic (and some that we guessed might show up as being illustrated, such as the penis Eric made or the boobs I put down), then we resumed talking using English instead of emoticons.

"So you have a Spotify, then? It just showed up in the mini mini-feed on the right—which I'm still getting used to, by the way," Eric typed.

I'd forgotten that Spotify was synched up to my Facebook, and that it let people see what I was listening to.

"Yeah, I got it over the summer. I love it."

"Did I tell you I'm in talks with Sleeper Agent to try and get them to play at A5? We're getting close to a deal. They would be playing in May."

_Holy shit. My boyfriend was in talks with Sleeper Agent. _"Really? That would be AWESOME. I would LOVE to see them in concert."

"Well, if they did come, you could meet them too. Hey, maybe you could write about it!" he suggested

I could, I realized. But wasn't there some sort of code of ethics that journalists were supposed to follow? If I were to write about music acts in New Orleans, I'm sure Area Five (or A5, as Eric kept calling it) would have popped up anyway because it brought in some many varied artists. I would have written about Sleeper Agent no matter where they played, but it felt different somehow I wrote about them playing at my boyfriend's bar.

That was something I'd have to talk to Todd about, not Eric.

After a moment, I asked, "What do you think of Spotify?"

It would be interesting to see his reaction. Eric was a purist and preferred vinyl over everything. But on the other hand, he was also obsessed with social media, which was a large part of Spotify since Sean Parker (or, as I liked to think of him, the guy Justin Timberlake played in The Social Network) was heavily involved with Spotify, and Mark Zuckerberg was even on the board of Spotify.

"Even though I didn't have a Facebook when it first came out, I did follow it in the news and stuff. I like it, but I don't want to. It's good for regular people, but sucks even more for artists than iTunes. But the idea of it is so genius. Love/hate."

"Do you have one?"

"I have an account, but I haven't really played around on it."

"Maybe I could show you the ropes?"

"Yeah! When would that be?"

I suggested, "Thursday night? I'm working late tomorrow and have a huge paper due Thursday afternoon I haven't even started yet."

"Funny story, Stan just messaged me and said he had a meeting with Sophie-Anne in New Orleans on Thursday and he wanted to see the bar," he replied.

"Awh! Stan! What did you say?"

To be honest, I missed Stan. He was such a better manager, and a better friend, than Rasul. I wouldn't have minded seeing him at all.

But I didn't want to encroach on his man date with Eric. And, I didn't know how we would explain it if I showed up. I had no trouble claiming Eric as mine, now that I had told Gran about us.

Plus, I was selfish enough to admit it was such a boost whenever I announced I was dating him (which I had done twice but whatever).

"I said we definitely needed to catch up and that since he'll need to relax after spending two hours with Sophie-Anne, we should hang out."

_Oh. Well, then. Have fun with that._

Then, "Eric is typing" popped up. YES! A second later, he wrote, "You should come."

A big fat smile came on my face. Good thing we weren't doing video chat! Although … what the hell. As Eric said, it was only him.

"I'd love to! What time?" I replied.

"Around five or so."

"Great!"

"Let's surprise him! He'll love it."

Eric was inviting me to his thing. I was getting to hang out with his friends (well, my friend too, but let's be serious, Stan was always Eric's guy) and the least I could do was return the favor.

I had already been planning on inviting Eric to the party, although I hadn't really factored how or when I would be doing it into the equation. But now was the perfect time, right?

"Can't wait...btw Tara wants to throw a party Saturday night and I'd like you to be there with me"

There. That was easy. Right? RIGHT? Why wasn't it saying "Eric is typing?"

AH! There it was. "Of course! Now I get to help you throw a party!" he responded.

"It's an ABC party," I wrote.

I was a little curious to see if he would know what that meant.

"I feel so old. I have no idea what that is," he confessed.

"Don't worry! I didn't either. Tara had to tell me. Haha."

"Just looked it up on Urban Dictionary. You're having an 'anything but clothes' party?" he typed.

Another reason why we should have been doing this on video chat or in person: I had no idea how to gauge his reaction.

"Yeah. Tara thinks it'll help blow off some steam after midterms."

He still hadn't said yes…

"More like blow off some clothes … or, you know, blow something else. Hah."

He STILL hadn't said yes…!

"Yeah, I'm not too thrilled about nearly naked people walking around my house, but it's something she wants to do and I should be there for her," I ended up saying.

"And I'll be there for you, then. Count me in."

THANK FUCK.

"Yay!"

"So…know what you're wearing to this thing?" he asked.

Oh my God.

I actually didn't. Not one tiny bit.

I'd been so worried about hosting nearly-naked people at my house that I had overlooked the VERY IMPORTANT fact that I too would be nearly-naked in front of them. And now, in front of Eric as well.

"Ah. No. Not really," I said. Hopefully that appeared to be a lot more nonchalant than I was feeling right now.

"Eh. Guess we have all week to come up with something clever. And protective."

"No kidding. Haha. Be right back."

**…**

**EPOV**

"'No kidding' is right," I said to myself, looking at the response Sookie had just gotten back to me with. Sookie and I were going to a party where clothing was forbidden.

"What do you mean?" Pam asked, standing in the doorway of my office.

I nearly jumped out of my skin. "Jesus, Pam! How long have you been there?"

"Long enough," she said simply, walking over to the chair in front of my desk and seating herself. "So. You were smiling at your laptop like you were watching porn, but your hands were on the desk the whole time. What are you doing?"

"Apparently Sookie is having an ABC party," I informed her.

She went from bemused to shock in two seconds flat; even her position changed from being slumped in the chair into sitting upright. "Sookie's throwing an 'anything but clothing' party? Good for her. And you."

Of course Pam would be the only one to know what an ABC party was.

"Are you going? You have to go," she told me.

"Yeah. I said I'd go and help her with drinks and moral support," I said.

"And to see what she ends up wearing. Although, I guess you've been seeing a lot of that anyway."

"Pam!" I cautioned.

She didn't care. In fact, she looked downright gleeful. "Oh my God. You're kidding me."

"I didn't say anything," I huffed.

"You didn't need to. You haven't fucked her yet. And she invited you to a party that was created just to make it even easier to find someone to fuck, and fast. Oh my God," she laughed. "Eric, ABC parties are sluttier than Halloween for girls. For Halloween a college girl would wear a skimpy top and a tiny skirt and stilettos and stupid fairy wings and go as a fairy. For an ABC party, she would just wear the wings and stilettos and duct tape. Get what I'm saying?"

"I looked it up on Urban Dictionary. I know what goes on at ABC parties. It's just not what I expected for the first party we went to as a couple for our debut, you know?"

"Huh, that's weird," she said, tapping a finger on her chin. "I knew Sookie was a Southern belle, but I didn't know you were too. And I definitely didn't know you guys were from the antebellum period either."

"Oh, shut up," I retorted. "And I'm serious about this, Pam! We already kind of have the age thing going against us. I'm just scared that going to a crazy college kegger with her for our first time out is just going to exaggerate the fact. It makes me feel a little weird."

"So what you're telling me is that you feel weird going to a party where young, hot college girls will be dressed in practically nothing?" she asked.

"Um, yeah," I mumbled.

Her words got the message across loud and clear; she didn't have to be a bitch and add the judgmental tone too.

"Can I go instead?"

"What? No, Pam, that's creepy."

"So? You're going. Or maybe going. Whatever. That's creepy."

"Not in comparison! I was invited, first off. By my GIRLFRIEND, who is hosting the party. And I'm going to look at my girlfriend, not all the girls. There's a difference."

"Young, hot college girl potato; young, hot college girl poh-tat-o. Whatever."

"Hey! That's my girlfriend you're talking about, you know!"

"So? Sookie's hot. Plus, you haven't seen Sookie naked yet, even though she's slept over at your place twice, and all these people—including me—will be seeing her in barely-there attire? I think you have bigger things to worry about, my friend."

"Well, yeah. But don't you think it's weird we've barely even fooled around and then she invites me to an ABC party? I'm not gonna go all caveman on her or any boy that looks at her or anything like that. But still. I think it's weird. I'll say it."

"It's on Saturday, right? You're seeing her before then," she said, like it was no big deal.

"But Saturday isn't the deadline to sleeping with Sookie, Pam. It's not like that with us."

"Honestly, with the way you two look, and look at each other, I'm surprised by that."

"Maybe it's because we're romantics, Sookie and I. You, you're just a fucker—literally and figuratively."

She narrowed her eyes at me, but didn't say anything. Aah, blissful silence.

I happened to look down at my laptop to see that Sookie had messaged me again. "Back. Sorry about that."

I looked at the clock—my break was over. And at such an inconvenient time. Still, I needed to go start my shift again, or else it wouldn't look too professional.

"Haha no problem. Listen, I gotta go to work. But text me tomorrow about coming over okay?" I hurriedly typed.

"Sure. Good night!"

"You too!"

I waited for a bit to see if she'd say something else, or maybe throw in a cute emoticon or something. But she didn't. So I didn't. And then I signed off and shut my laptop off, and went to the bar to start serving drinks again.

Pam followed me out to the floor, and I was just waiting for her to say something. But Thankfully, she didn't and just dropped the subject and let me do my bartending in peace. And thankfully she didn't say anything about Thursday, when she knew Sookie would be coming over. She was pretty good about keeping her mouth shut Wednesday night too, and the only thing she said about Sookie wasn't even to me, but when the blonde who'd asked me for some sort of Skinny Girl margarita thing that one of the Real Housewives hawked also asked Pam if I was seeing someone.

"He's taken," Pam snidely informed her, shooting me a look from her post on the floor.

"Ugh. He'd have to be. Story of my life," the girl whined.

They were standing close enough that I could hear everything, even over the Pixies song playing, and the girl's back was to me. Of course I took advantage by rolling my eyes and making a shooing notion with my hands. Pam just winked at me

"I myself, on the other hand, am available and perfectly willing to become the story of your life," Pam offered, taking a step closer to the poor girl.

Three seconds later, Pam was left alone, watching the girl scurry off to the other side of the bar. She looked at me and shrugged, and I just laughed to myself. I loved Pam.

Thursday afternoon, however, was a completely different story.

Pam usually didn't come in during the day—or most nights, really. She was still working full-time at Looney Tunes as their president of public relations, and she usually came in on the busiest nights to work as the bouncer.

I don't know why she did, and I couldn't remember how she ended up working the door. She was five-five, probably a hundred and twenty pounds, and had blonde hair and blue eyes—but she was the best bouncer I ever saw.

And I think she got off on the power thing, and I didn't really want to get into that with her so I never asked. If there was anything about Pam's sex life that I still didn't know about, then I wanted to keep it that way. I loved her, but not that much.

Since I didn't have a "day" job like she did, I usually spent my afternoons at the bar organizing the stock or unloading shipment or, my least favorite, doing paperwork. This was my quietest part of the day, since my nights were usually at the loud and noisy bar, and it was just me in my bar, until the waitresses came in at four-thirty.

Except Thursday.

I was in my office, figuring out the schedule for the waitresses and bartenders for next week. The Jack White playlist I'd found on Spotify was playing and I was singing along loudly; the doors were locked and I would be the only one in the place for another four hours.

Except, I wasn't when Pam used her own set of keys to let herself in and sneak into my office. It was during one of the quiet parts of my favorite Jack White songs and when she asked, "When is Stan coming in?"

I almost toppled over in my swivel desk chair since I was leaning backwards, propping my feet on the table as I balanced my laptop on my knees.

"AAAAH!" I automatically shrieked, and then instantly regretted it. This was why Pam liked to surprise me.

She threw her head back and cackled as I sat up straight and set the laptop on the desk.

"Hello to you too!" she said, coming over to me and handing me a coffee she'd brought.

"One of these days I'm actually going to have a heart attack and I swear to God, Pam, I'm gonna haunt the fuck out of you," I told her, accepting it.

"Is that how you learned to say 'thank you' in preschool?" she teased.

"Thanks, Pam," I said dismissively.

"So, what time is Stan coming in?" she asked, getting down to business.

"I think sometime after five. Aren't you going to be in the same office building, if not conference room, as him later?"

"No. I hate business meetings. Everyone gets all defensive since the numbers have been sucking since Christmas. PR doesn't get to go to any meetings with managers anymore, thank God."

I still didn't get why she wouldn't meet up with Stan at headquarters and come over, but whatever. I don't think she ever hung out with Stan individually, as she was closer to Isabelle.

"Why do you ask? Did you want to come and have a drink with us?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Although, I'm mostly going just so I can see the look on his face when he finds out you and Sookie are together."

"You can watch it for me, then," I said.

Stan had never said anything about the possibility of seeing Sookie in New Orleans, since I was moving to the city of Tualne.

In fact, he stopped talking about Sookie once I got together with Aude. Hell, I think I stopped talking about Sookie around then too.

If I remembered correctly, Sookie's name hadn't been brought up by anyone since Thanksgiving time, when a customer was buying the Gaslight Anthem's _The '59 Sound_ and the person ringing him up, Chow (of all people, really), turned to me and asked if this was the album I always played with Sookie.

I remembered how shocked I'd felt in that moment. Ever since I first played that album for her, I'd come to equate her with their music. It was like _The '59 Sound_ was our sound too, and it was weird to find out that someone outside of us had thought of that too. Especially when that someone was _Chow_.

"Why are you so nervous?" Pam asked.

"It's not so much nervous, as not wanting to see the look of gloating on his face when he says something embarrassing like, 'took you long enough!'" I admitted.

"Maybe he won't do that. Stan's a good guy. He's your bro, right? He'll be happy for you."

I arched an eyebrow at her. This was completely uncharacteristic of Pam, so much that I would have thought it was out of her emotional range. "Look at you, being all cute and cuddly," I remarked.

She rolled her eyes but said, "I came in fully prepared to rag on you …but you're actually kind of worried about this, aren't you?"

"A little, to be honest. The way I see it, it's like a test run. The big party at Sookie's is our official debut, but that's to a bunch of people I don't know or care about. But Stan, he's the first person I'll be officially introducing our relationship to, and I'm not 100% sure of what his reaction will be."

"Is Sookie freaking out about this too?"

Hmm. With her track record of freak-outs, I was sure she was. But what did I know? I was a hell of a lot closer to Stan than Sookie was, and I'd spent more time with him (and also, more time talking to her about him than she spent talking to him about me).

"I don't know. I haven't talked to her about it since I asked her to come by," I said.

Sookie was really busy with her job (which, thankfully, she had just given her two-week's notice to) and her schoolwork, and she hadn't been on Facebook all that much to talk. We did text a little here and there, but never consistently and all at one time.

"It should be interesting, either way."

"That's for sure."

We sat and talked a little longer as we finished our coffees, and then she left to go back to work. She said she'd come back at five, which was when Stan was expected to, and Sookie was coming over at five-thirty.

After she left, I had one last Sookie/Stan thought before I went back to paperwork.

Could we call it "meeting the friends" when Sookie had already met, and hung out with, Stan?

Only one way to find out.

I was nursing a beer at the bar—not as a bartender, but as a patron—when Stan walked in at 5:05. It'd been a couple weeks since I'd seen him, but this was the first time since I saw him since he got back from his honeymoon in Iceland.

"Eric, man, how you doing? This place looks great!" he said, walking up to me with his arms outstretched.

"Hey, man. Good to see you," I said, getting up.

We hugged, with lots of back claps. It was very manly.

"You cut your hair, you _GQ_ motherfucker," Stan said, laughing.

Since coming to New Orleans I'd gotten it professionally cut a couple inches shorter, and started using a coconut-scented wax I had bought at the salon Pam made me go to as part of the "small business-owner makeover" she had given to me ("Eric, you can only wear beanies and v-necks on bartending nights" and "Eric you own a bar so now you have to look like you do" or, my personal favorite, "Oh my God, you look like such a street rat right now"). _GQ_ motherfucker, indeed.

"Haha, yeah," I said, self-consciously running my fingers through my hair. "You clean up good too."

Stan was wearing something different from his usual American Apparel hoodie. He'd gotten bigger Buddy Holly glasses that made his green eyes look, literally, sparkling. Like Elijah Wood, he also didn't seem to have aged that much, and he certainly hadn't changed his wardrobe. Though he'd ditched the American Apparel hoodie for the meeting and was instead wearing a light blue shirt and a yellow tie under a gray cardigan, he still had on his trusty skinny jeans, though.

"Thanks, dude. So, you gonna show me your bar or what?"

"Yeah, sure. But can I get you a soda or something first? On the house, of course."

"I'll take a ginger ale, please," he said, slapping me on the back. "Thanks."

I cocked my head for him to follow me behind the bar and he looked at the bottles as I fixed him a glass. Stan hadn't had a sip of alcohol in three years, but he still was interested in the culture. Plus, he knew I was big on spirits.

"Not a lot of vodka, here," he remarked.

I walked over to where he was standing and gave him his drink. There was a whipped cream flavored vodka and a regular vodka, and that was it.

"Yeah, you're right. I read a book on how vodka is only really drunk at bars in the States and, like, middle of nowhere Russia, and how it's really looked down upon as a cocktail ingredient in Europe. And I think that sounds about right, since there are so many other great liquors out there that people should know about and try. So my goal is to get my patrons to wean off of it, you know?"

"How's that working for you?"

I shrugged. "All right, I guess. I'm trying to build a reputation as an old-school bar, so I'm never going to have any of the specials of the night have vodka in it. People have been trying new things, so that's encouraging."

Stan nodded at me, and then I started the tour of the bar, going around and talking about what renovations I'd made and where I'd gotten the artwork from. I showed him my office and the rest of the employee-only section, and when we came back to the floor I immediately spotted Sookie and Pam sitting on opposite sides of the booth, Sookie nursing a water and Pam drinking a cranberry juice.

Sookie was wearing her hair down, but that didn't disguise the fact that she was wearing some sort of drapey, lacey, gray open top that exposed that she wasn't wearing a bra with straps, since it was hanging off of her shoulders. She looked so sexy, and in that moment I felt so proud and accomplished that I was with her, and that she was with me.

Stan noticed her almost at the same time I did, and I could tell because we both stopped in our tracks at the same time—him from the shock of seeing Sookie and me from the sight of seeing Sookie look so good. He turned to look at me, eyes and mouth widened, and he smirked once he noticed that I didn't seem at all surprised.

"No way. No fucking way," he finally managed to say. He laughed and shook his head.

I just grinned at him.

"You lucky son of a bitch, he continued, still shaking his head. "You lucky, lucky son of a bitch. You've got everything you wanted now, don't you? Bastard."

I patted him on the back, looking at her looking at us. She looked so adorable when she was confused. "She walked into my bar last Friday, not even knowing it was mine. I haven't stopped talking with her, or talking about her to Pam, ever since."

"After all this time," he laughed. "You with her?"

I looked over at Sookie, laughing at something Pam said. Her hair looked shiny in the light, and she just looked so pretty. "Yeah. I'm with her."

By this time, Sookie had noticed us—Pam had probably pointed us out, judging by the smirk she was modeling. After a moment, Sookie smiled and got out of the booth to hug Stan.

Now I could see she was wearing a pair of black skinny jeans and pointy black ballet flats. She looked good, as always. But she looked so grown up and sophisticated then.

"Stan! Good to see you," she cooed, smiling.

"You too, Sookie. It's been a while, huh?"

"Guess it has. You're married now," she laughed.

"And you're with Eric, finally," he said.

I'd been standing next to Stan this whole time, and she got out of his embrace and came over to stand next to me, slipping a hand around my waist as she leaned into me.

I kissed the top of her head and proudly remarked, "Yeah, she is."

Stan and Pam hugged and said hello, and then we all got into the booth—Sookie and I on one side, and Pam and Stan on the other.

"So how's school?" Stan asked once we were all settled.

"Good, good," Sookie smoothly replied. After a moment, she added, "Just had a professor offer me a job writing for his arts and culture blogazine."

"That sounds cool," Stan said conversationally, and then he asked about what she would write about and she replied she'd be the music girl, and the talk was on.

Pam and I just looked at each other for a moment before joining in. It was always me and Stan or me and Sookie or me and Pam, and then always Sookie and me or Sookie and Pam. Stan and Sookie got along well, of course, but I didn't remember them getting along this well at Looney Tunes. Not that I was mad or jealous, by any means, but it was curious. Good, but curious.

They brought the conversation around to what bands had played at my bar already, and which ones were going to play, so that let Pam and I get some words in. I hadn't exactly gone over this with Sookie before, and certainly not with Stan, so I got a kick out of seeing their reactions to the stories I told.

I got the most responses to how the guys in Circa Survive brought their own convertible ping pong table and played in the green rooms for hours (and were freakishly good), and how I spent three hours talking with Kurt Vile about the cultural relevance and importance of Rolling Stone.

And then it was what bands should play, with everyone going around and throwing in suggestions. Stan wanted me to bring in some more of the underground punk bands that I knew he liked, and when I promised him I would try, he grinned and said he'd totally make the drive to the city to watch the show. Sookie said she'd be happy with Sleeper Agent, and anyone else I could get, and everyone laughed when Pam asked for any band with a lesbian singer she could get with and I had teased her by saying I'd book the Indigo Girls or Melissa Etheridge. It'd earned me a kick under the table from her and an elbow to the ribs from Sookie, but it was worth it.

Then Stan started talking about his work, and giving Sookie and I updates on the "regulars" we didn't get to see anymore, and then that led to reminiscing about times and people at the store.

Sookie blushed furiously when I recounted the first time she sold someone porn, that guy who also bought the _Seventeen_ magazine. But she smiled good-naturedly and groaned, "C'mon…" while everyone laughed, so it was all good.

It felt as easy and comfortable as going to Bloodhound that last night we all spent together. Just like then, I was sitting next to Sookie on our side of the booth—but now her thigh was pressed right up against mine and my arm was carelessly dangling around her shoulder (the booths were really a tight squeeze…or maybe that was because Sookie and I were just sitting really close to each other) and I would mindlessly twirl the end of a lock of her hair once in a while.

Together, we were all just sitting and bullshitting and joking—hanging out in the purest form—and I think everyone was having a lot of fun. I definitely was.

I'd missed Stan. It was good to see him. It was good to be in a group again, just sitting and talking. Everyone was getting along well, and there was zero awkwardness felt by me or anyone else, judging by the smiles on their faces.

"All right, I should get going," Stan said, pulling out his cell phone to look at the time. "I gotta be home in time for dinner or else Isabelle will skin me alive."

"Married life not all that it's cracked up to be?" Pam asked.

Stan downed the last of his drink. "It's good and all, but now Isabelle keeps talking about having a kid. It's all ovulations and eggs and stuff with her."

"A kid. Wow. Fuck," I said.

None of my friends had kids. Stan was one of the few of them who were married or even unopposed to the idea of marriage. It was already weird to think of someone my age—or a couple years older, as Stan was—getting married, but it was even more bizarre to think of someone my age being a dad. Especially when it was Stan. _Stan. _

Sookie elbowed me in the arm. "Hey, be nice." To Stan, she asked, "How do you feel about that?" She was so sweet, looking and sounding concerned—even if she did have a seriously bony elbow.

Stan smiled weakly. I knew that smile. It wasn't good.

"I don't know. I want a family, just not now. I want to be a newlywed and have a lot of newlywed sex without it being 'we need to have a baby sex.' But if I talk about all this then I'd be here all night, and I can't do that," he replied.

We were quiet for a moment, and I was sure everyone felt as awkward and unsure as I did.

And then it was Sookie, sweet Sookie, to break up the silence. "Your kid would be so hipster he'd probably come out of the womb with your Buddy Holly glasses and gauge earrings," she joked, obviously trying to cheer him up.

"Haha, yeah," Stan said, cracking a smile. "I'm sure American Apparel makes some baby hoodies."

"Or you could just buy an XS women's size, same thing," Sookie replied, and we all laughed.

"I'm not even sure I can still be a hipster if I'm a dad," Stan mused, laughing at the thought. "Or if I am, then I can be the hipster dad before anyone else was."

Sookie laughed appreciatively, and I nudged her leg with mine. When she looked at me, I grinned at her, and after a moment she grinned back at me.

I was glad that Stan looked a little better, and that Sookie had been responsible for it. I liked that the people closest in my life were getting along so well.

"All right, we'll let you go, then," I said. "I've forgotten how much of a bitch the ride back to Shreveport can be."

"Lucky guy. It's terrible as ever. But I will be coming up in a couple weeks or so—numbers are down and Sophie-Anne is on everyone's ass about it, so we're having more and more meetings."

"Awh, sorry to hear it, man. But maybe you should bring Isabelle into town some time," I told him, getting up at the same time he did. "I haven't seen her since the wedding."

"Same," Pam said, hugging him goodbye.

"Yeah, maybe. Take care, Pam," he replied.

"Bye, Stan. It was good to see you," Sookie said warmly, now that it was her time in the hugging line.

"You too, Sookie. Stay in school and all that. I'm sure I'll see you soon," he said, and then turned to me.

"I'll walk ya out," I told him, and we headed to the door.

Once we got outside, Stan turned and stopped, waiting for me to light up. He knew me so well. "Still smoking, I see?"

"Not as much as I used to. You'd be proud of me," I told him, fishing my lighter out of my jeans pocket. "It's usually only when I'm stressed."

I wished I could take it back as soon as I said it. Stan was a smart, good guy, and I knew what he was going to ask before he did.

"And you were stressed tonight?" he asked.

I inhaled and shrugged, motioning for us to start walking. "This is more of a celebratory cig. You were the first person besides Pam that I tried out the whole me-and-Sookie thing on."

"You shouldn't have been that worried. I'd forgotten how you two were."

"What do you mean?"

He shrugged. "I mean your cute little looks and causal touches and always sitting next to each other. I'd forgotten how good you guys were together, always in your own little world, and I think it's even better now that you can act on that, you know?"

"Yeah. Well, that means a lot to me, Stan. And it was good tonight, don't you think?"

"Definitely, man."

Stan had parked a couple blocks away, and we were nearing his car now. I was almost done with my cigarette. "So how are things with you and Isabelle, really?" I asked.

He shrugged. "We're having trouble adjusting and figuring out what we want. I'm all for having kids, it's just that I don't want to do it now. And I don't know what the hell she's freaking out about, because she's only twenty-nine and we have the rest of our lives together. She's picking the worst time to freak out about it, and I don't know if it's because I've been super busy at work or what."

After a moment, he quietly added, "I didn't mean to get all emo back there."

"Yeah, I know," I told him.

"It's just that tonight reminded me of how we all used to hang out and I realized we hadn't done that in a while," he explained.

"I hadn't either. It's been all work, and then Sookie came into my life again last Friday."

"Yeah, so how is it dating a college girl?" he asked.

I loved Stan so much in that moment that he meant it as a personal thing, and he wasn't just asking, in a pervy way, what it was like to be with a twenty-year-old.

Because the way I saw it, I wasn't dating a college girl. I was dating Sookie, _finally_, and she just happened to be in college.

"I don't know," I admitted. "It's finals week for her, so she's been really busy. And, I've only met her roommate briefly, but Sookie's throwing a party at her house this weekend and wants me to come, so it should be interesting."

It was kind of weird, but good-weird, that I could talk about Sookie like that—that I knew parts of her life well enough to explain them to someone else, an outside party.

"Awh man," he groaned, shaking his head. "You're going to be drinking out of red cups and I'm going to be putting my sperm in a cup at the pregnancy specialist clinic thing Isabelle's taking me to. How did we get here?"

I knew what he meant. It felt like we were going in opposite directions: Stan was going older and I was going younger.

"Nah, it's different than that. It doesn't feel like I'm dating a college girl. Sookie's always been really mature for her age. The only weird thing is that being with her continuously reminds me of my college years and how different I was in college compared to her. It's odd to see how some things have changed and some things haven't."

He nodded, and we walked in silence for a little bit until I could see his car.

"Well, this is me," he said, gesturing to the Nissan "It was good to see you and everything. Thanks for tonight."

"Anytime," I assured him. "But let's be better at keeping in touch, huh? Especially now that I have my Facebook again."

Stan grinned. "Definitely."

I threw my cigarette away and then gave him a hug goodbye. And then, he was pulling out into the street and I was walking back to the bar, lighting up another cigarette just because I hadn't had one in three days.

It wasn't until I was finishing it in front of the club that I realized I hadn't needed to smoke that much since getting together with Sookie.

"You smell like smoke," Sookie remarked, scooting over in the booth to give me some room. Pam was at the bar, talking to a waitress I knew she wanted to try out.

"Yeah. I had one while walking Stan to his car," I casually said.

"I didn't know you still did that." Her tone wasn't accusing, but curious. It didn't annoy me, but I wondered why it was such a thing for her.

"I haven't in a while," I told her, putting my arm around her shoulder and bringing her closer to me. The last time I smoked was Monday, and before then it was Friday afternoon."

"Ah. I'm not trying to be your mom about it or anything. It's just … like the earring thing. I feel like it's something I should know about you, you know?"

I could see how her mind worked. It was like there was a checklist of things she needed to know about me, and now that we were together she had to check them off, one-by-one. She wanted the information to study so that if she were given an Eric pop-quiz given to her by inquiring friends asking about her new boyfriend, she would be able to pass, and with flying colors. Geeze, no wonder she was doing so well in school.

After a moment, she laid her head against my shoulder and I kissed the top of it mindlessly, pausing so I could smell her hair. It smelled so good, a mixture of her perfume and whatever hair stuff she used.

"Yeah, I get it. Hey, you haven't taken up smoking have you?" I asked.

"No."

I kissed the top of her head again. "Good. Don't ever. I've been good with it, mostly. Now I only let myself do it when I'm stressed—"

She turned to me, her eyes big and blue. "You were stressed tonight?"

"Or celebrating. I should have said celebrating first," I said. She relaxed a little as I continued, "Tonight, though, I think it was a little bit of both. This was just to burn off some steam. I think our first debut went well, didn't you?"

Her eyebrows crinkled a little, briefly, as she studied me. "Is that what you were so worried about—what Stan would think?"

"He's one of my real friends, my only real friends, besides Pam. And you too, now, I guess."

"Oh, you guess, huh?" she teased, poking me in the chest, right on the end part of the "v" of my olive green v-neck shirt.

I swatted her finger away. "Something like that."

"Well, this real friend is ecstatic about your recent partnership. I'm pretty sure Pam's all for it, if only to have a reason to tease you. What does your other real friend think?"

"Stan's happy for me, and for us. But I'm a little worried about him and the kid thing."

"Yeah, what was with that?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. It made me feel really old."

"Me too," she agreed.

I looked down at her. "Really? You feel old?"

She narrowed her eyes at me for a couple seconds before breaking out in a smile. "Okay, point taken. But I mean, it was weird that I knew someone who was married, just because none of my friends are. And none of my friends are dads either."

"I know what you mean. Growing up sucks sometimes."

"Not all the time," she amended. When I raised an eyebrow, she clarified, "If I didn't grow up, I wouldn't have gotten you."

I smiled and lifted her chin up. "If I didn't grow up, I wouldn't have gotten you either."

She made the leap and brought her hand to the back of my head, angling for the perfect kiss. We got it.

For a split second I worried I was looking unprofessional in front of the staff, but then Sookie's tongue joined mine and I thought fuck it, Sookie's going to be around here a lot now and they better get used to it.

I forgot about them, clouded in our own little world of Sookie's perfumed curtain hair and the secluded booth we were in. It was easy to lose my bearings when I had Sookie around me and I couldn't see anyone else—and of course, when we were catching up on all the kissing we had missed out on over the months. I could get used to this too.

A couple minutes later, and I was getting too used to it—I was about two seconds away from being hard at my own bar, in front of my own employees and customers. Hell, I was pretty sure there were a couple of cops drinking a pitcher in the corner table.

I drew back, still cupping Sookie's face, and looked at her. Her cheeks were a little flushed and she licked her lips as she smoothed down her hair. Once we made eye contact, she giggled and bit her lip, just like I'd been doing about ten seconds earlier.

"I need a breather," I told her, dropping my hands to her waist.

She blew air out of her mouth, but not down my throat like the last time. "Yeah. Me too." After a moment she asked, "Eric, can I tell you something?"

"Yeah, sure," I responded, wondering where she was going with this.

"Remember how I told you that I used to daydream these little scenarios of us after I turned you down, and especially after things started falling apart between Alcide," she said, and I nodded.

Of course I remembered. I liked that when she first said it, and I liked it even more now.

She continued, "Most of the daydreams were about what things could have been like if I had said yes to you. So I've had those in my head for a while, but I wanted to wait before acting on them until … until my reality was better than my fantasy."

"Your reality was better than your fantasy? Tonight?" I asked. I had no idea where she was going with this.

_We didn't even do anything._

She smiled at herself. "Yeah. It was—especially now."

_Especially now_? "What do you mean?"

"I'd never daydreamed about … just hanging out with you and your friends—my friends too, but um, that's not the point. I never thought that I would feel that happy doing something that normal. And not only happy, but happy to do that, to just sit with you in a booth and talk and have you put your arm around me."

"Yeah?" I asked, greedily.

It had been so fun and easy hanging out with Stan that I had forgotten how nervous I had been about his reaction. That felt like days ago. It was comforting to know that I hadn't been the only one a little anxious. I needed to hear this from her.

"Yeah. It, um, reminded me of the last time I was with Stan, obviously, and that was at Bloodhound that last night where we all kind of just got together and had a drink. And back then I was so conscious of where your body was to mine, and how loudly I was breathing and how I smelled, and I couldn't enjoy myself because I was too busy freaking out about sitting next to you."

This was fascinating to me. I had no idea she had felt this way—and hours before she had rejected me that night.

She continued, "And tonight, it just felt so normal I didn't even have to think about it. Like, I know I've hung out with Stan at bars before, but sometimes it meant more now."

"You have no idea how happy you've just made me," I told her, getting up and moving towards her.

"Maybe not, but I hope it's close to how happy you made me just to sit with you at your bar—as stupid as that sounds."

"Not stupid," I murmured, ducking down to take a kiss. "Right. That sounds right."

…

**A/N: **

**1.) I don't know if you guys have heard about the Fangreaders, but it's a group of people who, since January 2011, have been chatting about and sharing their favorite SVM/TB fanfiction stories. I personally haven't been that involved with this and didn't really know it existed before I heard about their Fangreaders' Awards, which is this fanfiction contest the group is holding to commemorate their year-long anniversary. **

**There are different categories with different stories in each one and, holy shit guys, Behind the Music was nominated for the awesomely titled "Newlin Award," which is for "Best All Human Fanfic." **

**What's even more amazing is that the Fangreaders nominated the stories for these awards, which means that BTM readers nominated this story for the award (which means some of you have heard about the Fangreaders, haha). That's crazy. I've never really been in this position in all the time I've spent here on fanfiction. The news came as such a surprise for me and it has continued to stay the same, especially when I looked at all of the other stories and realized that they were all fanfics I had read and loved. Thank you for believing this story deserved to be included with them.**

**Voting is open to the entire SVM/TB fandom, so you don't have to be a member to vote. The ballot will close on 19th February 2012 11.59pm GMT. Here's a link to the site with all of the nominated fanfics (which I highly recommend you check out if you're looking for some new stories!) and the link to vote is on there too:**

**h t t p : /bit(dot)ly/VoteFangies**

**2.) I also don't know how many of you have heard or use Spotify, but I think it's a fascinating concept and am obsessed with it. Here's a link to a very in-depth article put out by Forbes magazine about the product and its inventor, and I think it's an absolute must-read for anyone even remotely intereseted in the state of the music industry today (I know, I know, my music geek is showing :P). **

**www (dot) forbes (dot) com/sites/stevenbertoni/2012/01/04/spotifys-daniel-ek-the-most-important-man-in-music/**


	21. Second Absence

**A/N: Much love and thanks to my beta chiisai-kitty. And these characters are not mine, I just got them drunk. CH you can have them back now!**

**...**

**SPOV**

Eric was coming over like now to pick me up so we could buy alcohol and groceries for the party and I was running late and needed to put shoes on and make sure I had enough cash and I hadn't checked my hair in about ten minutes but all I could think about was how friggin' long my right big toenail was and that I needed to cut it _right now_.

But the thing was that I couldn't find the toenail clippers anywhere (and because Gran had this instilled in me from an early age—_no, I did not remember the last place I put them_), but there was a pair of scissors on my desk that were looking pretty good right now. It seemed pretty hillbilly to me to have to cut your toenails with scissors but then—goddamnit!—the doorbell rang and Eric was yelling my name because now he was here, of course, and I had this big-ass toenail and no shoes on and yeah, those scissors were looking pretty damn good right now.

"Come on in," I yelled, simultaneously reaching for the scissors and mentally calculating how much time I had before Eric walked in and saw me attempting to do some low-key toenail cutting with pink kid-friendly scissors with blunt edges. Pretty sure we weren't on that level yet.

Aha! Snip, snap, done. The toenail flew somewhere across the room, but Eric was calling my name and making his way down the hall so I flung the scissors onto my bed and reached for my ballet flats that had caused this whole damn thing when my toenail got stuck in the little bow.

"Ready to go?" he asked, stopping in the doorway and looking at me gracefully sitting on the edge of the bed, digging through my purse

_He had no idea what I just did_. "Yep," I cheerfully answered, closing my wallet.

"You look nice," he told me, eyeing my belted khaki shirt dress and gold ballet flats. Once it was ballet flat weather, there was no going back.

"Thanks, that's kind of you to say," I automatically replied. I stopped and looked at him, really looked at him, and added, "Especially when you're looking so good right now.

Eric was wearing a light-wash jeans shirt and a pair of darker skinny jeans—of course he'd rock the fuck out of a Canadian tuxedo. The shirt was unbuttoned just enough that I could see a tiny silver sliver of the anchor charm I knew was on his necklace. He looked like a hipster 21st century Kennedy in his classic Ray-Ban Wayfarers and, yep, he was wearing his little black Beatle boots that he always seemed to have on.

Quite frankly, he looked like he stopped by on the way to his Urban Outfitters photo shoot.

He gave me a puzzled little look before shaking his head and saying, "Thanks."

"Is it nice enough outside that I don't need a sweater?" I asked him, getting off of the bed.

He eyed me for a couple seconds before replying, "Nah, I think you're fine."

I walked over to where he was standing and he gave me a hug, throwing an arm behind my head and the other one behind my back. I was used to the one person goes up and one person goes down kind of hug, so I didn't know what to do with my arms. I ended up just kind of wrapping them behind his back and pulling him closer. It felt a little awkward at first, but then he ruffled my hair and I knew it was fine.

"It's nice to see you," he murmured into my hair.

"Yeah, you too," I told his chest.

We'd mostly kept to text updates about our day that culminated in a fifteen minute phone call each night where we gave a rehash about our day and talked about other things. It didn't sound like much, but I was used to only talking on the phone to Gran, so it was kind of a big deal for me to be on the phone since no one called anyone anymore ever. Those fifteen minutes were a lot, though. Those midterms would have totally kicked my ass if I hadn't studied as hard as I did. Tara was right in thinking we needed to throw this ABC party to celebrate not needing to think any more.

"How does it feel to be all done?" he asked as he walked behind me down our very narrow hallway. He didn't ask how the tests or essays went because he'd done that every night this week.

"It feels great," I said, looking over my shoulder at him, and he smiled encouragingly at me. "I can't wait to just relax and chill out and not worry."

He chuckled. "And that's why you're hosting a party tonight—you? To relax and chill out and not worry?"

I laughed too. "I'm going to be easy-breezy tonight, you just wait and see. Tara's in charge of everything. She's going to be the good cop and the bad cop and the worrier and everything. I'm just getting the supplies."

He held up his hands, backing off. "All right. Have you given any thought to what we're wearing tonight?"

I loved that he had said "we." I think it was Thursday night when I'd told him that I was looking at this like a costume party where everyone was going to be barely dressed, rather than an ABC party, and he'd just went with it and asked, "So, are we gonna do a couples costume kind of thing or what?"

We hadn't slept together, hadn't even gone past second base, but he wanted to do a couples costume at a party where people would see as much as me that he'd seen of me (and, hey, to be fair, as much as him that I'd been able to see so far). It didn't make sense. But somehow, agreeing to do a couples costume made everything so much more intimate. It kind of made up for the fact that we'd only kissed-hooked up, not fucked-hooked up.

"Um, so I was thinking maybe we could just wear towels?" I suggested.

The idea had come to me during one of the many stress showers I'd taken this past week to give me a chance to relax and recharge in between studying or writing essays. I'd been mulling it over, weighing over the other ABC party options I'd googled during my procrastination time, and it seemed like the one I'd be most comfortable with.

I thought the towel thing was sexy, ABC-friendly and sexy.

Tara had went out and found—somewhere, somehow—a Twister mat that she was planning on cutting a hole for her head and then belting it around her waist. I think she wanted to tape the spinner somewhere on her too. And I had absolutely no doubt that she would make her costume work and look super hot in it, but it was a cheap sexy, like a funny, crazy sexy. It was ABC party sexy, which wasn't that sexy when I thought about all of the ABC party options I had googled, like wrapping paper or duct tape or even a trash can.

Those were ridiculous. A towel was not.

We were at the front door by now, and I was opening it while looking back at Eric to make sure I didn't accidentally hit him with the door. I almost did, because I was so distracted by the way his eyes, all lit up, were looking at me.

"Sookie, that's a great idea," he breathed, raising an eyebrow for extra effect. "I love it."

"Really?" I asked, surprised.

Eric reached up and opened the door even more, since I had barely opened it halfway before I looked back. "Yeah. Let's do it. That's so much better than what I had."

"Well, what did you come up with?" I asked, taking the step out to the porch.

He was closing the door, back to me, but he shrugged his shoulders. I couldn't believe he was just closing the door without being asked, just like that, just like he'd come and gone from that door so many times before when in reality he really hadn't. It was kind of weird that we were so used to each other and our routines and it'd only been a week—literally a week—and Eric was already holding out his hand for my keys so he could lock my front door for me, and I handed them right over to him.

"I don't know," he said, giving me back my keys. "Stupid stuff, like bathing suits or trash bags or boxes that we wouldn't be able to walk around in. Let's do the towels."

"Okay," I said.

I felt so relieved. Towels were easy, I wouldn't have to look stupid, and I'd be relatively covered up. Plus, I could kind of cheat and wear a tube top and cutoffs underneath; it's not like anyone would know, and if my towel somehow became unwrapped then I won't get too embarrassed about it.

And it's not like I was throwing this party to meet a guy. I had a guy—Eric. Sure, I wasn't doing anything with him really, but I still had him and he still had me.

Eric had parked in the spot I had begun to think of as his, right in front of the path to the steps of our house. It was an unspoken agreement on this street of mostly grad students at Tulane that no one parked in front of your house, and since neither Tara nor I had a car, our spot was usually open. Tara had never been with anyone with a car, Alcide didn't have a car, and none of our friends really had cars since we could walk anywhere we could afford to go. But Eric had a car and now he had a spot in front of my house.

"So where we goin'?" he asked as he turned the car on.

I was going to say the liquor store, but then I got distracted when "Little Lion Man" came on.

That band, and their album, and that song always reminded me of Looney Tunes. _Sigh No More_ had come out a little bit before I started working there, but it became more and more popular the longer I was there. Whenever I heard any song from that album, I remembered how I would always ring the album up for people or put copies of it on the floor. I remembered having to stand next to the stereo whenever "Little Lion Man" came on so I could lower the volume each time "I really _fucked_ it up this time" was about to be sung.

If I knew a playlist of Looney Tunes, "Little Lion Man" would absolutely be on it. There'd be some Gaslight Anthem on it, like pretty much everything from _The '59 Sound_—just like there'd be some Gaslight Anthem on the playlist of Eric Northman as well.

"Is this on the radio or were you playing it on your iPod?" I asked, looking over at Eric.

"IPod," he confirmed. "Why?"

"I just really like this song but haven't heard it in a while."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. We used to play this so much at Looney Tunes, remember?" he asked, like he'd just read my mind.

"Yeah," I said, remembering.

"So, where am I going?" he asked, bringing me out of it. He was at the stop sign at the end of the street.

"Oh yeah, sorry. Um, let's do the liquor store first. We have to get ice at the grocery store but I don't want it to melt so we can get it last."

"Sure," Eric said.

He'd told me earlier that he knew the best place to go so I trusted him. Besides, I'd never gone to a liquor store, not really, since I always had people buy me stuff or would just drink at parties.

"It's kind of like a deja-vu," I said. "Going with you to get alcohol and food, coming back to a party we're gonna be hosting."

"We'll have to buy grapefruits this time for the Jell-O shots," he mused, smiling over at me. "You said that, right? I don't think I came up with that."

"Yeah, that was me," I said.

I remembered so well because of the hot flash of "OMG did I just say that?" that I experienced a second after I said it, embarrassed that I had just automatically assumed there'd be a next time.

Funny how there was now a next time. And somehow it was a better time too, for both of us.

"Is Pam coming? I told her she could, you know," I asked.

"Oh, I know," he said, chuckling. "She has a meeting with clients or something. She's pissed. She was oddly excited to come."

"Oddly?" I asked, looking for clarification.

"Oddly, since she has to pay property taxes and wants to go to a college party."

"What about you?" I asked timidly. Did I want to hear the answer? "Are you oddly excited?"

"I was a little, when you first told me," he admitted. "But not anymore. Now it's just regular old excited. Plus, I have a reason to be there, since it's your party."

My party. Not a college party. I liked that he phrased it like that.

"Oh, okay, good," I said, looking out the window.

Eric cleared his throat as that Of Monsters and Men song came on. "You've heard this, right? 'Little Talks?'" he asked.

"Yeah, I love it," I said. "They're like the Icelandic version of Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes, don't you think?"

"A little less hippy, sure. That band always reminds me of you and Looney Tunes, because that 'Home' song came out."

Yep. He was right. That was another addition to the Looney Tunes playlist. "Anything from the Black Keys' _Brothers_ reminds me of Looney Tunes too, since it came out when I worked there."

"Oh yeah, I remember that," he said. After he had made the left-handed turn, he added, "And anything Gaslight, of course."

"Of course," I agreed, smiling. It really was like he was reading my mind. Or maybe we had the same mind now, or we always had and we were just realizing it now.

A few peacefully quiet minutes later, and the only time we talked was when Eric talked about how much he loved the Dr. Dog song "That Old Black Hole" that had come on, and how excited he was to see how the band was handling their growing fame.

Then we were at a pretty big liquor store somewhere in the city I had never been to. There weren't a lot of big, or nice-looking, liquor stores in the city.

We were pretty far off campus, and he probably took us here to this store because it was, I was assuming, close to the grocery store we'd go to next. There weren't a lot of big suburban grocery stores in the city either.

Our hands awkwardly brushed against each other as we walked to the store—twice, and both within ten seconds.

"So romantic," I said, trying to lighten it up.

Eric looked down at me and barked out a laugh before reaching out and grabbing my hand, taking it into his. "There," he said easily, and held out the door for me with his free hand.

I didn't want to let go of the other one, so I pretty much just led him into the liquor store, him trailing behind me and still holding my hand. I wondered what we looked like to the middle-aged woman behind the counter.

"Do you have the list?" he asked, grabbing a basket.

Tara had given me a list of the alcohol she thought we needed, and she had told me to run everything by Eric before buying something. I might have oversold her on how good Eric was at hosting parties.

"Yeah, here you go," I said, handing it to him. The only alcohol she'd asked for was vodka, a keg of beer, and rum. No names or amounts or anything—no wonder she wanted Eric to help out.

Eric took a look at the list and snorted. "College parties haven't changed much, I guess."

"I guess not. Tara's not picky and this isn't a fancy party or anything. I guess we just need the basics," I said.

"That's fine," he said, nodding to himself, and then he started walking down the aisle.

He picked out a big bottle of vodka and two handles of Pinnacle whipped vodka, showing me that and smirking as we both remembered that drink from the last party. He also got two bottles of Sailor Jerry's rum, just because he liked the aesthetic appeal of the label and brand (something I knew nothing about and he'd made me promise to google it once I got home), and then just picked a keg of beer out that we'd have to drive around back to load into his car. And, we got the mandatory plastic red cups and these little Dixie cups to use as shot glasses. We did _not_ end up getting the ones with Dora the Explorer on it, no matter how much Eric begged.

When we walked by the Ping-Pong balls, Eric asked if there was going to be any beer pong tonight and I actually didn't know the answer. When I texted Tara, she replied that if I was okay using the dining room table we could do it, and it'd probably be good since people might be too worried about their costumes to actually dance. So we got those too.

"Is there anything you want to get for yourself?" he asked, and I looked at him, surprised. I hadn't even thought of that.

"Not that I can think of. Why, is there something I should be getting?" I replied.

He shrugged. "I don't know. Do you have any gin?"

I shook my head. No one ever had any gin. I never even had gin unless I was at a bar. Gin was too fancy or expensive for me or anyone my age to buy our sophomore year of college.

"Do you want some?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I've never had any gin of my own."

"Well, now you will. Let's get you some Hendricks. It's my favorite. I want to buy it for you," he said, starting to walk in some direction.

"Eric! No! You don't have to do that," I said, chasing after him. Damn, he took long strides.

He stopped and turned around. "What?"

"I mean, you're already getting the alcohol for the party for me," I said in a hushed voice, in case they had microphones or something in this liquor store. "And I intend on paying you for all that, of course. But I mean, you're already doing enough."

"No, I want to do this. It's fitting. I was the one who got you to drink gin drinks at bars with me, and I want to be the one who gets you to drink gin at home," he said, and then resumed walking again.

He stopped in front of the display of Hendrick's gin, looking at the bottles while I bent over next to him to look at the prices. Oh my God, this gin must have pure gold in it, and that was why it was so expensive.

"Eric," I cautioned, watching him put in the basket. I reached for it, and he lightly slapped my hand and gave me a stern look.

"No," he said. "Don't. I'm doing this. It's a meaningful act for me."

I could tell he was dead serious and wasn't going to give up. It was meaningful for me too, but not $70 worth of meaningful.

"Ugh," I said, and he smiled because he knew he won. "Only if you promise to split it with me."

"Done," he said, grinning wider. What a smug guy.

But then, he did something completely un-smug and wrapped his arm around my shoulder, bringing me close to him. "Sookie, I'm going to have to work on teaching you how to take a gift or a compliment or something. 'Cause when I try and give you a gift, you make me promise to share it with you, and when I compliment you, you compliment me back. Like, c'mon girl, can't you just say 'thank you' or something?"

I opened my mouth to say something and then closed it. Damn, he was right. And very observant.

I didn't know what to say in response so I just laughed.

"All right, then. Anything else?" he asked.

"Uh, I think we're good, if you do."

"Cool."

It wasn't until we were walking to the cash register that I realized I hadn't given Eric any money, or even talked about how I would pay him for the alcohol. And of course I couldn't just hand him my debit card or some cash because that would be so obvious.

It didn't feel like he was buying alcohol for a minor, but that's what he was doing and I suddenly realized how much trouble we could get in if we got caught.

So I made sure I looked somewhat normal and presentable and definitely legal as we approached the register. I must have been doing something right because the cashier didn't say anything and soon we were out the door.

I handed Eric the cash once we got the keg in the car and he took it without an argument. But that might have been because "The '59 Sound" just came on and Eric kind of flailed his arms in the direction of the stereo before turning it up.

"And I wonder which song they're going to play when we go. I hope it's something quiet, mannered, peaceful, and slow," he sang, looking over at me in approval when I joined in.

He had no idea how much he'd changed my life when he played me that record—no idea how often I listened to it, when I would specifically want to listen to it. But I guess that made sense, because I think he had no idea how much he'd changed my life just in general.

"You know what? Let's just listen to this whole album," he said when the song ended and we were at a stoplight.

"Do it! What were we listening to before?"

"Um, my top-rated playlist, I think," he said, putting on the first song of the album. And it only took one look between us before we started belting out the lyrics together.

_"Mary, this station is playing every sad song,  
I remember like we were alive.  
I heard and sung them all from inside of these walls  
In a prison cell, where we spent those nights.  
And they burnt up the diner where I always used to find her,  
Licking young boys' blood from her claws.  
And I learned about the blues from this kitten that I knew.  
Her hair was raven and her heart was like a tomb.  
My heart's like a wound."_

It wasn't until the fourth song on the album finished that we pulled into the parking lot for the grocery store. I think the last time I was in a parking lot was also the last time I was in a car, which was the last day of the last break. Cars just weren't in my life at college, since none of my friends had on theirs campus. But somehow I got the feeling that I'd be spending a lot more time in a car with Eric.

Grocery shopping was easy. We just needed ice and cups and juice and soda and, of course, grapefruit and Jell-O. You didn't really need any food at college parties.

But … then I started looking at all the big bottles of juice that I never bought at the little grocery store by my shop because I'd have to carry them the ten blocks back to my place. And then I saw the huge 12-packs of toilet paper that were never in the little grocery store and I wouldn't be able to carry home anyway if they did.

Eric had a car. I wouldn't have to walk back.

"Hey Eric?" I asked as I stopped pushing the cart.

"Hey what?"

"Is it okay if I do some non-party grocery shopping? Like, for me? Is that okay?"

"Yeah, sure." A minute later he asked, "Where do you usually do your grocery shopping?"

"There's a place like ten blocks away from my house that I go to, but I always have to walk there," I explained.

He nodded, already connecting the dots. "So there's a limit on how much you can bring back and what you can get, basically."

"Pretty much."

"Then yeah, go for it."

Turned out that going grocery shopping for me with Eric was good for more than just letting me buy the stuff I usually couldn't. It was a good way to figure out what kinds of foods and snacks we liked to have around the house. Both Eric and I only liked Ruffles' brand of cheddar and sour cream chips, and we both drank skim milk and orange juice with pulp. We did not agree on oatmeal (he called it grandma food) or cottage cheese (I called it grandpa food, just to be silly).

We even bought a frozen pizza for tonight. Eric only fought a little to pay for it, but I won in the end because I was paying for everything else and he'd already done so much for me today. But it was pretty tough to beat his argument, which was that he had a steady full-time job and I was a broke college student and since he had the means he could help out.

"If we're going to be together, I'm not going to sit and watch you eat Ramen noodles every damn night," he'd argued, and I tried my best not to swoon.

By the time we were all done, it was five. "Okay, so we need to go to my place if we're going to get the water coolers and other supplies. Wanna get a coffee? We can go to a little shop near me and stick all the ice and juice in my fridge," Eric offered.

"Yeah, sure. I don't have anything else to do," I replied.

"Gee, thanks," he sarcastically joked.

I laughed. "No no no no no, I didn't mean it like that!"

"I know you didn't," he chuckled. "I was just messin' with you, that's all."

It felt really domestic bringing in the groceries and the alcohol to Eric's place. I knew we'd only been together for a week and the stuff we'd bought were for the party I was going to be throwing for my underage friends, but still: it felt really domestic.

We knocked out an hour at the coffee shop—an actual coffee shop that made little heart designs in the froth of the cappuccinos we drank. We sat in two plush velvet love seats, bumping our knees but not moving them away as we were splitting something Eric had ordered, a pain au chocolate. It was like a croissant with melted chocolate and I felt so bad that I pretty much inhaled the one we were supposed to share that I bought another (which made me feel good, because Eric had insisted on paying for the first one).

It was nice, because I hadn't had any free time and especially any free time with Eric in a while. We just sat around and talked about what music and books and films we thought the other would like. It was relaxing and fun, and just really, really easy. I liked that it wasn't a Starbucks, like every coffee shop within a two-mile radius of the campus was. Eric lived in such a cool part of the city.

"You're staying in the city next week, right?" he asked on the walk back to his place. Somehow it was always faster and shorter and easier walking all over with him, and not just because he had this gigantic stride with his long legs that I had to match with two paces of my short little stumps.

"Yeah, didn't feel like making Jason or Gran drive all the way here just so I wouldn't be alone on campus," I replied.

"You could spend a couple nights over at my place," he casually offered as we left the coffee shop. "It'd make hanging out easier and we wouldn't have to like, drive all over to be with each other."

"Um, yeah, sure. Why not?" I answered.

"Cool. We'll get to hang out a lot, then. I can work around your schedule."

"If it's no trouble for you, then yeah. Do it."

"Consider it done." After a moment, he added, "Was there anything you wanted to do next week? Something in the city, like a museum or a movie, that you never had time for but now you will?"

I thought about it—and about my budget. I still had to email Todd to confirm that I wanted the job, but I had my last day at the bar tomorrow. There were always young hot college girls leaving applications there so it hadn't been that hard to get a replacement.

"Let me think on it," I said.

"Sweet."

When we got to his place, the kiss I gave him as a thank you for today ended up a full-on make out session on the couch.

It was the most making out we'd ever done, and the most touching too. Eric had maneuvered us on to the couch, with him on top, and he kept brushing one finger up and down the side of my waist, coming real close to my breast one time and then stopping at the center of the curve of my waist the next. It was like he was memorizing my body with clothes on and it was driving me wild with anticipation.

Maybe someone else, like Eric, would say that we were making out like teenagers. Except I was just barely not a teenager, and when I was in high school I never made out like this with anyone. I guess I was making out like a college-aged young woman with an older-than-college-aged young man. Eric.

"Hey, do you mind if we take a break? My leg's starting to hurt," Eric wheezed, and I was pulled out of my hazy kissy cloud to see that his leg was sprawled out from the arm of the couch in a way that did not look comfortable at all.

"Yeah, yeah, sure," I said, straightening up. "Sorry 'bout that."

He got off of me and picked my legs up so he could sit down, and he made it a point to stretch his long, long, long legs on the coffee table before he put my feet in his lap. "Don't worry."

"What time is it?" I asked.

He checked his phone. "Um, like seven."

Wow. That was a lot of making out. Talk about taking it slow.

"We should probably think about heading over to my place soonish, right? The party starts at ten and we still have to eat and get ready for it and stuff," I said, wiggling my toes.

"So, should I change into my towel or just bring it with me and change at your place?" he asked.

Hmm. Good question.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe just bring it. You should always know where your towel is anyway, right?"

He stopped massaging my foot. "Oh my God. You did _not _just make a Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy reference."

I wiggled my toes at him. "Oh yeah I did. That just happened."

"Yeah, sure." He moved my legs and got up, scratching his neck as he asked, "Should I get cleaned up for this party or something? Maybe, since I'm only going to be just in a towel."

I shrugged. "I don't know. You don't smell bad or anything."

"Thanks," he said, shooting me a toothy grin. "But I think I'll maybe freshen up a little. I feel like I could do with a shower."

"Stop seducing me," I deadpanned, and then flashed a cheeky smile at him.

His lip curled and he tapped the top of my head twice with his knuckles when he walked past me into his bedroom.

"Help yourself to whatever, as always," he called out, and I could hear him opening a drawer to get something. Maybe his underwear.

It was times like these that I wished I had a smart phone, so I would have something to do. Instead, I turned the TV on to Top Chef—the only reality television I could stand—and watched it while I waited for Eric. I heard drawers being opened and shut, but I had no idea what he was doing.

I spent a whole commercial break just looking at his laptop on the coffee table. We seemed to be in the habit of doing couple-y things without being physically intimate with each other. We'd already passed the couples costume mark and the drawer talk—surely I'd be able to use his computer?

"Hey, mind if I use your laptop?" I called out.

"Yeah, sure. There's no password or anything," he yelled back. A couple seconds later, I heard the water of the shower come on.

There was a very good chance that I had just been talking to Eric while he was wearing nothing. Huh.

His Facebook was logged on, but I signed off and logged into my own almost immediately. The Facebook event Tara made for our party had sixty confirmed guests, and even though only probably half of them would end up going, it still worried me. I knew a couple people who were going—Sam had only replied "maybe"—but not a lot. They were mostly Tara's friends or people I didn't know.

Whatever. I'd have Eric.

About twenty minutes later he came out in grey skinny jeans, a black v-neck sweater, and bright red socks.

I swear, he was like a frickin' model walking all over the place. It was such a refreshing change from the hoodies and baseball caps and sweats I saw everywhere on campus. I didn't even know if Eric owned a hoodie or a baseball cap or sweats.

"So what did I need to bring over again? The water cooler, and what else?" he asked, combing his hair with his fingers as he walked behind m on the couch. I had to crane my neck to look at him, but it was worth it.

"Um, I'm pretty sure that was it. Besides all the food and drinks and stuff," I answered, watching him walk over to the kitchen and pour himself a glass of water. That black v-neck sweater was really tight.

"Right, right," he said to himself, padding down the hall somewhere. I loved that he was wearing bright red socks.

I looked over my shoulder to see where he went, but he was gone. He came back a moment later with the Gatorade water cooler I remembered from the last party. "How's this?"

"Great!"

He set it by the door and then sat next to me on the couch, barely glancing at his laptop I was balancing on my knees. "Is there anything else I'm forgetting? Do we have enough plastic cups?"

"I think we do," I replied.

"Okay. Okay then. Hey, think I should pack an overnight bag in case I get too drunk? Do you mind?" he casually asked.

Oh God. Eric had never slept over at my place before. I'd have to sneak in some cleaning if he was going to. And find that toenail that flew across the room.

"No, yeah, that's fine. At least you're preparing for the possibility, right? That's better than what I did at your party," I said.

Even though I was with Eric now, I was still really embarrassed that I got that drunk that night.

He laughed before disappearing into his room for a couple minutes. When he emerged, it was with a worn brown leather messenger bag. "Ready to go?" he asked.

"Yeah, sure. Let me start with the groceries," I said, turning the TV off and setting the laptop on the table.

It was a good thing Eric parked so close to his place, since we had to make two trips back and forth. His apartment didn't come with a garage or a guaranteed spot, he told me, so sometimes he had to circle the block a couple times before he could park. I couldn't even imagine such a thing.

Our Sookie-and-Eric time was over when we got back, and Tara was there with the guy she was throwing the whole damn party for, Mark. He was cute, tall and black and dressed in skinny jeans with an '80s sweater and a golden beanie. Tara always said she wanted to find a black hipster and I guessed she did.

She introduced us, and he shook my hand and gave Eric a "yep, we're their guys" nod.

It was awkward for a second before Tara clapped her hands and asked Mark if he was ready to start moving all the furniture. Eric graciously offered to help, which made Mark look slightly more comfortable, but Tara insisted she could do it and I didn't discourage it. Tara had these arms that were as sculpted as a boy's, but much more slender. She was one of those people who went to the gym and liked it.

So that left Eric and I in the kitchen together making the grapefruit Jell-O shots and reminiscing about the last time. It was unavoidable. He liked teasing me about how drunk I was, and I fought back by telling him all the ways I was going to get him drunk tonight so I could make fun of him for it later. It was all very casual and cute, pokes to the ribs and eye rolls and laughter. I was having so much fun and the party wasn't even started yet.

We threw the pizza in the oven (I felt slightly guilty we didn't anticipate Tara and Mark, but they waved it off and said they were going out for a bite anyways) and started making the jungle juice until the pizza was done. The house looked pretty party-ready, compared to other house parties I'd gone to. Tara and Mark had pushed all the furniture to the sides of the rooms and stored the most important stuff in Tara's room, since it was closest. I was glad our rooms could be locked, because I knew I was going to do that with mine tonight. I didn't want anyone but me and Eric going in there, especially now that I'd tidied it up a little for him.

While Eric was setting up the keg, I took a quick shower, barely giving myself any time to enjoy the warmth of the water. I had showered earlier, but I felt like since I was going to me kind-of almost naked, I should be clean. It didn't make any sense, because we were going to a party where everyone was going to be half-naked and fully-drunk, but I needed to.

I did put on the tube top and short shorts underneath, but you couldn't tell with the big fluffy fushia towel I was wearing. That didn't stop me from duct-taping the one side of the towel to my clothes, and then duct-taping the little knot that was tucked down my towel front before knocking on the door to my room. Eric was changing in there.

I waited for a couple seconds before the door opened and Eric was there, navy towel nonchalantly wrapped around his thin hips. He waved off the duct tape and said he didn't need any. I almost asked if he was wearing anything underneath the towel and then stopped myself.

Eric looked good. Real good. He'd brought over flip flops and they went with the whole navy blue towel look. And also, he looked really cool with his tattoo.

It made me feel good to think he was mine.

"I feel kind of ridiculous," he admitted, stepping back in the room and placing his ball of clothes on the dresser.

"Yeah, me too," I answered, looking for my flip flops.

He turned around to look at me. "You don't look it though," he said, a half-smile on his face.

"You don't either."

The party was a little awkward at first, but then once more people came around 10:30 or so it got really bumping. I couldn't believe how many people were in my house right now, and how many of them I just plain old didn't know. I kept apologizing to Eric that I didn't know a lot of people that we could talk to or I could introduce him to, but he kept shrugging it off. He didn't care.

Plus, the costumes made it easier to start up conversations with people, which we were doing a lot of—both with the people I kind of knew and the randos Tara invited—as we sold the Jell-O shots in the backyard. We had a lot of people come up to us and compliment us on our matching costumes, and no one said anything about how he looked a little old for me—_no one_.

I did introduce Eric to the people I knew, all of whom were at my place for the first time, and they just kind of accepted that I had this boyfriend. I mean, no one asked how long we'd been together or how we first met or how old Eric was. They just accepted it.

I wondered if Eric noticed all the girls checking him out. I mean, I was noticing a couple ups-and-downs from guys in plastic bags and wrapping paper and togas and a carpet, for one guy. But now I was glad Eric had suggested the matching costumes. That sent out a message as subtle as the skimpy outfits the girls with the most makeup were wearing. People looked, but no one talked.

Tara looked outstanding in her Twister mat makeshift dress, and Mark didn't look that bad either in his Snuggie, which I thought was a pretty clever ABC costume. He'd belted the thing so you couldn't see his butt, and I liked him a little more for it. The two of them were just kind of flitting around and making sure no one was doing anything they weren't supposed to, which was good because Eric and I weren't doing that from our position at the makeshift bar in the backyard.

Eric and I were making a heck of a lot of money selling the shots, considering that the beer and jungle juice were free. People just saw the cute presentation and went apeshit, I guessed; it's not like every house party had grapefruit Jell-O shots.

From time to time I'd take a shot on my own, and Eric would match me. He had a cup of beer that he'd fill up from time to time, and I was nursing a cup of jungle juice that I'd refilled twice.

He was out-drinking me for sure, but he was bigger so it worked. I mean, Eric had bulked up a little since the last party we went to, but now he looked lean and muscular as opposed to just skinny, like before. He was tall, but he just wasn't big. Whenever he went and moved to the opposite corner of the yard to fill up his cup, it was so easy to find him. And he did fill up his cup a lot. I don't know how much was too much for him, but I knew that how much he was drinking would be too much for me.

It was cold, selling shots outside. eHJhasBut soon the coldish temperature of the night didn't seem to matter and there were less and less Jell-O peels on the counter, thanks to both Eric and I and the other random people at the party, and everything was all right. Our alcohol blankets were making everything all right, Eric said.

When we sold out at 11:30, we didn't bother cleaning up. Now that we had some breathing time, we just stood there in my tiny footprint of a backyard and took in the scene. I couldn't believe this many people were in my backyard, let alone my house, right now. It was crazy. People were making out in my house that didn't live there. Crazy. And judging from the costumes and actions of the people in my house, they were a little crazy too.

"They should really call this an Anything-But-Dignity party," I whispered to Eric, surveying the crowd.

"Or an Anything-But-Sober party," he whispered back conspiratorially, his warm beer breath tickling my ear.

"Anything-But-Fashionable."

"Anything-But-Smart. ABS again, damn."

We looked at each other and giggled. We'd been getting more and more giggly with every shot we took. We'd probably eaten a whole grapefruit worth of vodka—maybe two.

Eric titled his chin towards this girl I didn't know who had come in "caution tape" clothes—a little caution tape bandeau top and then a caution tape skirt with pleats that reminded me of those belt-things you used to have to wear in gym class for flag football.

"I think the 'caution' stands for 'caution, I'm classy," he said.

I laughed as I watched her square her shoulders and thrust her chest out while nodding and looking interested at what the cute guy wearing a crocodile inflatable pool ring floatie around his thin hips was saying.

I loved that he was making fun of this insanely hot girl with me.

"You are already not wearing a bra and you just have bright yellow tape around your boobs—there's no need to stick the girls out anymore because, trust me, the guy's already noticed them," I whispered back.

When we got bored of commenting on people, we moved back inside, slowly wading our way through the sea of people. Nothing in the house looked broken or damaged, even though it was kind of obvious Tara and Mark went off duty since they were making out on the couch so much I almost wanted to tell them to move it to the bedroom.

"You'll have to remind me to clean the cushions extra hard tomorrow," I told Eric, pointing at them.

He shook his head. "Nope. No worrying tonight, Stackhouse. You need to get a drink and just relax," he told me, and he got me another cup of jungle juice and a spot with him at the next next game of beer pong.

No one was really dancing on our makeshift dance floor, but the music Tara had picked out—all loud Dubstep, mostly, just because that was what was played at house parties—had the bass running through me like an extra heartbeat.

Eric and I didn't dance. We just kind of nodded and watched and drank and talked as we waited our turn. The only time we weren't next to each other was when one of us got drinks.

"I'm pretty good at this. You should know that about me," I drunkenly told him once it was our turn and we were waiting for the guy to refill the pitcher of beer and bring it back.

"Oh yeah?" Eric said, laughing. "Then you should know I'm pretty good at this too."

He was. We made a good team, especially considering how drunk we were. I was surprised Eric was this giggly, since he was a lot taller and bigger than me. But he had been pounding back a lot of beers, so who knew. I was sure he wasn't one of those people who just pretended to be drunk to fit in or get attention, just like I was sure he wasn't a lightweight. But, with the way he Tarzan-thumped his chest every time he got a shot in (hard enough to leave red marks on his pecs), he was probably drunk.

He kept throwing his hands in the air every time he got one in, and I'd get a big sloppy kiss when I did. I was getting my fair share of ins too, especially considering how each time I threw the ball I had a mini heart attack that my towel was going to unravel.

We ended up winning, actually, in a surprisingly close game between two completely random frat guys wearing coconut bras and grass skirts and leis. We'd been down to three cups to their one when Eric got the winning shot in.

"I didn't lose to two guys in coconut bras!" Eric roared, and everyone who had been watching the game cheered and held up their red plastic cups, even the two guys we'd just beat. Seemed like Eric could always be the life of the party, if he wanted to.

He turned to me and gave me the biggest, hardest hug I'd ever gotten from him, and then gave me a wet, beer-flavored kiss on the mouth. "We did it!" he exclaimed, putting his two hands on my bare shoulders and squeezing.

"Yeah!" I exclaimed, clapping my hands. He laughed and kissed me again, and then again and again until someone had to poke Eric in the back because it was our turn to play against the challengers.

I blushed, remembering how I almost wanted Tara and Mark to go get a room. They were nowhere to be seen anymore, which was a good thing probably because Eric and I lost the next game of beer pong to two guys, one in a toga and the other in a very revealing tutu and fairy wings. It was another close game, though, and we ended up having to drink a lot. Well, Eric did, because he was better at chugging the beers and he could usually out-pace me two beers to one.

Which explained why Eric was now wearing a goofy, hammered kind of grin and had glazed-over eyes.

"Dude, I could totally see that guy's tighty whities under his tutu," Eric moaned to me when we were in my room alone taking a breather after our loss. "Like, if you're going to go as a fairy, wear cooler underwear."

"What underwear are you wearing?" I boldly asked, and then immediately covered my mouth, like that would automatically undo what just came out of it. Was I allowed to ask that?

"I don't remember. But I am wearing underwear, I think. Only way to find out, right?" he replied, not even stopping to wonder why I had asked. He swiftly unraveled his towel while lying down on the bed and, _oh _God, raised his hips to take them off. And his body was too long for him to see from the position he was lying down to see what he was wearing, so he ended up having to go up on elbows to see all the way down his long, torso. I had to strain my neck from where I was lying next to him.

I couldn't believe I had the opportunity to look down Eric's torso to see what underwear he was wearing. Looney Tunes Sookie would have shit a brick.

"Eric Northman is modeling a pair of navy blue boxers with pink flamingoes that he bought on sale at Old Navy," he said, in a commentator's voice, and then looked over at me with all the excitement and happiness of a kid hearing the ice cream truck jingle outside. "What about you?" he asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

Crap. Taking all the duct tape off of me was not going to be sexy, but I did it anyway. It was just Eric.

"Um," I said, trying to buy me time, and Eric pounced on it.

"C'mon, I showed you mine!" he pleaded.

"Fine," I told him. "But you're not going to like it."

"Impossible," he said dismissively, shaking his head.

But I knew I was right when his eyes bugged out as he took in my fully-clothed appearance.

"Hey, you cheated!" he said accusingly once he saw the short shorts and tube top. He didn't even seem to care about the duct tape.

"Shh! You can't tell anyone," I whispered.

He flipped over so he was on his stomach and replied, "Of course. I'm not going to let anyone know what you've got going on underneath your towel, even though you _are_ wearing clothes."

"Good," I said, giggling.

"You looked really sexy tonight, Sookie. Even with your clothes on under your towel," he said, very seriously, before hovering over me and giving me a kiss.

"I must have been the only girl at the party, besides Tara maybe, not showing any boob."

"Eh. There were so many boobs tonight. No underboobs, though."

I was so amused I couldn't even get mad. "Underboobs, Eric?"

"Yeah. I think the sexiest part of the boob is the underboob," he triumphantly announced.

I snorted. This was my boyfriend. "The _underboob_? You're so weird."

"No, no I'm really not!" he valiantly protested, pointing at himself. "There's a system to it, Sookie," he added, switching the finger to point at me.

"Oh yeah?" I asked dubiously, trying not to laugh in his face about it. "And tell me, what is that."

He got up, towel off, and sat cross-legged on his towel. "Okay. Okay. Here goes. So, with some girls—and to be fair, some boobs—it can be really easy to see the tops of the boobs. The cleavage, if you will."

He nodded, and was so serious and I so wasn't, but I tried to stifle the grin that was fighting to show and nodded solemnly for him to continue as I got up and mimicked his seating position. _This was going to be good._

"So after a while, you kind of get used to the tops of the boobs, since you see them so often. And that's okay, obviously, but they're just the easiest to see. Every once in a while you get a side boob, which is nice and all, but you never see underboob. And, do you want to know why?"

"Why is that, Eric?" I goaded, trying not to snigger. This was fascinating, funny stuff.

His eyes lit up, and he leaned towards me and lowered his voice to say, "It's a conspiracy made up by clothing designers." Once he finished, he leaned back and threw his arms up in a "come at me bro" pose.

Oh my God.

"What do you mean?" I goaded him, wanting to hear more of his funny theory.

"What do I mean? WHAT DO I MEAN?" he thundered, bolting off of the bed. As he paced, he ranted, "You know what? I'll tell you what I mean. You never see any underboob because there legitimately isn't a shirt or a dress on the planet that will show it. The only rare sightings of the underboob in public appears on the beach, and that's only for a couple seconds before she realizes her bikini top isn't straightened right. The bikini industry has a monopoly on showing the underboob, therefore, so there must be some reason why they aren't exploiting it, right? It's because of the clothing designers. The jealous clothing designers. It's all their fault and I hate them so much right now."

He walked over to the side of the bed and looked over at me when he added, "So therefore the underboob is the sexiest part of the boob because it's the part you see the least—and because it's the part that makes the whole boob juggle. I mean, really, duh. Just duh."

And then he spread his arms out and belly-flopped onto the bed like it was a trampoline, and I was bounced a little like we were playing popcorn.

Oh my God. Too funny. It was so hard for me not to lose my composure and start laughing at him.

"Ohhhhhh, I see," I said, feigning understanding. What he was saying was a valid point, now that I thought about it, but it was absolutely ridiculous.

"I'm gonna go drink me some more things," Eric announced, trying to get off the bed. He stumbled a little, but threw his shoulders back and drew himself to full height as he walked to the door.

He _so_ did not need to go drink him some more things. If I knew that, considering, then he _really _did not need more alcohol.

"You're leaving me?" I pouted, deciding that maybe it would be the best way for him to stay and stop drinking.

Eric paused, mid-step, and looked at me. "What? No! Of course not. I'll stay."

I smiled at him. "Good."

He walked back to the bed and sat down. "On one condition."

"What's that?" I asked, resisting the urge to point out that I already had him staying.

"You have to stay on the bed with me," he replied, patting the space next to him.

"Fair enough," I replied, scooching over to that spot.

As soon as I was there, Eric curled his arms around my stomach and pulled me so I was lying on my back, like he was now.

"I'm gonna cuddle the shit out of you," he said, mimicking the John Lennon/Yoko Ono _Rolling Stone_ cover and kissing me on the cheek.

He was fully clothed (in boxers, anyway) and his leg wasn't quite as high as Lennon's, but it still felt nice. I wondered if he was consciously mimicking his favorite Beatle's pose or if it was just that ingrained in him that he could do it while completely shitfaced.

"That's the most romantic thing I ever heard," I said dryly, but laughing all the same.

"Hey, watch me do this," he said, sounding like a little kid. And then he moved so he was lying on top of me and kissed me full on the mouth—which is not at all something a little kid would do. _Not at all_.

"Hmm, was that romantic or what?" he teased, drawing back a little but not so far back that his eyes were still like one big Cyclops eye.

"Very romantic," I awarded him, straining my neck to give him short little kisses. "Very, very romantic."

"Your lips are so soft," he breathed, pressing a finger to my bottom one. "But your lips…they're soft. They're soft lips. _You_ have soft lips. And you're not even wearing any chapstick are you? I don't taste any."

"Um, no," I said, but then I giggled so it wasn't as mean-sounding. I didn't want to be mean-sounding at all. I didn't even want to be _mean_.

He chuckled too, as he lazily ran his finger up and down my neck, uppp and downnn. "They're just so … soft. And like, your face is so soft. And your hair. And your collarbone. I'm sure you're just soft everywhere," he said, touching everything he mentioned.

I smiled, laughing even more now.

"Wanna know something _really_ funny?" he asked.

"Always," I replied, cupping his face.

"We didn't even open the gin!"

He pressed his nose against the side of my cheek and started laughing. And I laughed too as I cupped the back of his neck, bringing him closer to me.

…

**EPOV:**

I didn't know how drunk I was until I found myself telling Sookie about my underboob theory. I never told _anyone _that before because I was scared they would steal it from me. But I guess even in my drunk state I knew I could trust Sookie.

"I'm really drunk, aren't I?" I asked, hearing myself slur. It was good to know I was drunk outside of my head too.

"Yeah, you are. But I think I am too," she answered, pinching the space between her eyebrows. "God, we really drank a lot didn't we? You drank for me."

"I was drinking to defend your honor," I said.

Sookie was good at winning beer-pong but bad at losing. She took forever to finish her cup, and in that second game when we weren't doing that good, she just couldn't do that. There was no time for it. So I had to drink for her.

"Thanks," she said mindlessly, tracing her lips with her finger. "My lips are so numb."

"I have to pee," I told her, sitting up on the bed.

"Okay," she said, not moving.

"Wait, no I don't," I said, getting off the bed.

"You don't have to pee?" she asked, now leaning back on her elbows.

"No, no, I do," I said. She wasn't getting it. "I have to go to the bathroom, I should have said."

"Um, okay?" she said, definitely confused.

"As a man it feels weird saying I have to 'pee.' It just sounds weird."

"So you have to take a piss?" she asked, giggling.

"Yeah. I guess. Can I say I'm gonna take a whiz?"

"I don't know. You tell me. You're the manly man."

"Yeah, I am." I liked hearing her say that, even if it was only in jest. "Okay. For real. I'm gonna go now. I'll be right back."

"I'll be here," she said, flopping down on the bed.

She was still there when I came back, ten minutes later. There was a line to go to the bathroom, and I really wanted to just be like, "This is my girlfriend's house and her party, so I get special peeing privileges."

But it was all girls in front of me so I couldn't go through with it. I disliked them though. They were all grouped together giggling and trying to subtly check me out. I guess I was asking for it, since I was just in my boxers now. I hadn't really thought that through.

I was just glad they were, like, too scared to talk to me or something. I don't know if I'd be able to handle all the giggles. They seemed so much younger than Sookie to me.

But then again, Sookie was already pretty mature for her age. Even back in high school she was more mature than me, even though I was older. She was different now, but still the same. Sookie was twenty, but she was more than that. She'd stopped being a teenager when I wasn't watching.

Now she was in college and we were both older, and I liked to think I was more mature than I had been back then. Maybe I wasn't making the best case for it in my drunken state, but I owned a bar now and I had a girlfriend. And, I hadn't been this drunk in a very, very, very long time.

Sookie was waiting for me outside, talking to Tara, who was just wearing a bathrobe. Sookie had thought to put her towel back on.

_See? More mature than me._

"There you are! I thought you might have fallen in," Sookie said when I walked up next to them.

I swung Sookie around so I was the one leaning against the wall and I was holding her tight against me, my hands on her hips. She was balancing me.

"Sookie, silly sweet Sookie, that doesn't even make sense!" I said.

Tara laughed and exchanged a look with Sookie. I couldn't see what Sookie was doing, but I still kissed the top of her head.

I couldn't hear as many voices, and I was pretty sure I wasn't seeing double because there weren't that many people in the house to begin with.

"Does it seem quieter in here? Or is it just me? It's okay if it's just me. Just let me know," I said.

Sookie put her hands over mine and kept them there. "I think the party's starting to wind down. It's like 1:30 in the morning."

"Yeah, people are starting to leave on their own. In a little bit, we can start kicking them out. I can do that," Tara said, standing there in her pink fluffy bathroom. She was a funny girl.

"Good. I'm getting sleepy," I said. And then, wouldn't you know it, I yawned. Like I needed to prove my point.

"Me too. I think me and drunky over here are gonna head in, Tara," Sookie said.

Tara laughed, and Sookie did too. I didn't. "Hey!" I protested, squeezing her. "C'mon, blondie."

"Blondie?"

"Yeah. Drunky and blondie. The adjectives describe both of us. See what I did there?"

She shook her head against my chest. "We'll help with clean up tomorrow, Tara, but I feel like we're probably going to sleep in a bit and need to grab some breakfast before then."

"Yeah, no worries. Good night, you two. You're adorable," she said, and walked down the hall.

Sookie got out of my grip, ready to go back to her room, but I stayed where I was. I needed to steady myself up against the wall for a bit before I started walking back.

"You okay?" she asked, looking concerned.

"Just being cautious."

"Okay," she said, looking me up and down. She came and stood in front of me, slipping her arms around my waist and leaning into my hug. I concentrated on her smell and feel until I felt a little steadier.

"We can go now. Thanks for waiting."

"Don't worry about it. I didn't know you drank so much."

"Yeah, me neither. It snuck up on me. Sneaky alcohol."

We were in her room at this point, and she closed the door and locked it. It should have been sexy, but I felt anything but sexy right now.

"I'm so sleepy I could fall asleep," I said, scuttling over to her bed and getting under the covers.

She laughed as she turned off the light. "Oh, you are, are you?"

"Yeah," I murmured into her pillow. I hadn't planned on spending the night and didn't bring a toothbrush, and even though I knew I'd have absolutely disgusting morning breath tomorrow, I didn't ask for one. Wasn't worth it.

I heard Sookie moving and walking before she slipped under the covers with me. I blindly felt around until I felt her—her boob. I had just reached out and grabbed her boob. Literally. Jesus, I was a mess.

"Sorry," I said, quickly withdrawing my hand. "I couldn't see. I'm really sorry."

She was just laughing her ass off now and I felt like even more of a prick. "That's okay."

"I'm really sorry, Sookie. I've never done that, and never would do that to a woman. It's not sexy or right in any culture. I'm so sorry."

"Eric, listen to me, it's okay," she said, scooting over to me and putting an arm around my waist. I could see her now, a little, and she looked fine.

I barely heard her. "I just didn't want to be the first time I touched your boobs to be like this. That was horrible. I'm so sorry." Even though she was lying next to me and on me, I couldn't even touch her right now, I felt so mortified.

She kept laughing. "Actually, Eric, that wasn't even the first time you touched my boobs."

I stared at her. "What?"

_Was the sky also purple?_

"There was this one time at Looney Tunes, I think it was the day you taught me how to do the cash registers, and you accidentally elbowed me in the boob."

I couldn't remember that, no matter how hard I tried. I just had no memory of that.

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

"All this time, I had touched your boob. And I never knew."

She was laughing into my shirt, her hot breath warming me through the fabric. "Pretty much."

I'd never been more embarrassed before in my life. "Uggggggggh," I groaned.

She rubbed my back and I was comforted by the soothing pattern she kept.

"Eric, don't worry about it. Don't think about it at all. Just go to sleep," she whispered.

So I did.

...

**A/N: I don't know what this says about me, but I love writing the party scenes the best because I get to write drunk Sookie and Eric. Muahaha. **

**And I swear I didn't plan this, but today is the last day you can vote for "Behind the Music" for the "Newlin Award" in the Fangreaders Award. And if you're stuck in a FF rut, it's worth heading over there and looking at all the stories in the categories. **

******h t t p : /bit(dot)ly/VoteFangies**


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